Worth the Cost
by Sweet Anonymity
Summary: The citizens of Metropolis rally to their hero’s aid when Superman is forced to count on them for help. But will it be enough? ::Semicrossover with Batman Begins—see AN::
1. Part 1

**Worth the Cost **

By Sweet Anonymity a.k.a. Nefhiriel

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre: **Action/Adventure/Angst

**Summery: **The citizens of Metropolis rally to their hero's aid when Superman is forced to count on _them _for help. But will it be enough?

**Disclaimer: **Superman and the cast of this story (with the exception of OCs) belong to their respective owners. I do not take any credit for them.

**A/N: **I'm not very knowledgeable about Superman. As a matter of fact, I know shamefully little. Simply put: I'm a fan of the newest _Superman Returns_ film—I saw the fanfiction potential in that movie, and it compelled me to write this. I usually don't write fanfiction for something unless I feel at least little more qualified through experience, or have been a fan for a long time. But I did _try_ to do my research for this. ;-) Also, I did see all the Christopher Reeve movies, but that was when I was much younger, and I've only re-watched the first two recently. So, needless to say, my cannon is probably pretty shaky, but I hope it's acceptable to all you more knowledgeable fans out there.

Batman will also be making an appearance later on in this story. -sheepish- My Batman knowledge is very _Batman Begins _oriented, just as my Superman knowledge is mostly from SR. (I've seen most of the other Batman movies, but also just like with the other Superman movies, that was a while ago.) So, "my" Batman is, shamelessly, the one from newest movie, and he is also a good friend of Superman's.

**About the setting: **Being a fan, primarily, of SR, this story takes place within that "world". However, at the same time, I've simplified things for the sake of the plot. Although I enjoyed both characters, neither Richard nor Jason quite fit into the plot—so, although they exist, they're not present, or mentioned in this particular story. In other words, this is an SR fic, set in the SR realm, but not pertaining primarily to the SR storyline. Make sense? Heh, probably not… I think (hope) you'll see what I mean when you get into it. :-)

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**Part 1**

_Kryptonite: No Longer a Rare Commodity_

That was one of the kindermore objectiveways the newspapers were putting it. Lois had read it and flinched. The other headlines she'd read over the course of the last days drove a cold stab of nausea into the pit of her stomach every time she thought about them. The full implications of this latest bit of news were taking a little while to sink in. On the other hand, she wasn't entirely certain she _wanted_ it to sink in. She sat at her desk at the Daily Planet, trying to focus on something other than Superman and his possible demise, and failing hopelessly. The bustle around her didn't quite penetrate.

Green was steadily becoming her least favorite color.

_Kryptonite in the Hands of the Average Criminal_

That one definitely gave her a few mental pictures she could have done without.

_Kryptonite for the Masses_

"Masses" and "Kryptonite" in the same sentence wasn't much better.

_Superman Beware_

Her thoughts exactly. "Superman beware", "Be careful, Superman"—and all kinds of variations with the same theme—had been the main occupants of her thoughts ever since the news had broken and spread like wild-fire across Metropolis. Somewhere, somehow, someone had been busy at work, with the intention of bringing about the downfall of Superman. Many were now afraid this anonymous "someone" was succeeding.

Kryptonite, in alarmingly large quantities, had been infiltrating the city through various means. From where, or whom, precisely, these different sources were _originally_ getting the Kryptonite remained a mystery. But the one and only weapon proven effective against Superman was being shuffled from one man to the next, handed down the line until there was no telling who, or how many, owned a shard of the green mineral.

Of course, the sudden abundance of Kryptonite might be simply a disastrous—or, depending on your view, _fortuitous_—gift from this nameless, faceless someone. Certainly not a "_gift_ from above".

It was all a mystery Lois was, along with the better part of the citizens of Metropolis, anxious to solve. Even among those who didn't personally owe the superhero their life, or the life of a loved-one, most had the common sense to realize their lives were safer in his hands than without him there to catch them if trouble caught up with them someday. Keeping Superman from being killed was, even from a detached point of view, in everyone's best interests. And the general populace had a view that was anything but detached. Watching lives be saved innumerable times by one man had a way of making one feel slightly indebted to said man.

"…and to compound rising fears, Superman has yet to be heard of since Monday this week…"

Lois' drifting attention was caught long enough by the reporter on TV for her to concentrate on the single sentence, figure out that it was presently Thursday afternoon, and blearily come to the conclusion that that meant they were entering the third day with no news of Superman. God, what was she doing here, just sitting around worrying, and doing nobody any real good? _What else would you be doing? Thought you might just traipse out there, and single-handedly start relieving local thugs of any Kryptonite weapons that might be in their possession? _She had to admit, the thought had occurred to her. But heavens knew she'd gotten into more than her fair share of trouble, and heavens also knew Superman had gotten her out of most of those situations.

Right now, the last thing she wanted to do was create a new catastrophe. What she wanted was for Superman to disappear until this Kryptonite problem was taken care of. Actually…he seemed to be doing just that. She would have been relieved at his absence, if it weren't for the equal possibility that he'd been made to "disappear" by some low-life wielding a piece of Kryptonite. That possibility stared her in the face every time optimistic thoughts tried to slip into her head. And, of course, there was the obvious problem of Superman being too stupidly, ridiculously, hopelessly loyal and noble to abandon Metropolis just because of something like this. Who cared if it was _his_ life at risk for a change? Minor detail.

"Ah…Lois. Are you alright?"

Clark really didn't deserve to be the recipient of her bad mood. Someone like Clark rarely did deserve to. Unfortunately, people like Clark usually made _excellent_ scapegoats. In this case, it was also a mixture on her part of several nights' insomnia, followed by too much caffeine, and raw nerves just waiting to be stepped on. In addition, Clark had an annoying habit of just appearing out of the blue next to your desk, and asking you ridiculous questions like "Are you alright?", and being so quiet beforehand it took you a moment just to get over the surprise of him being there. Thus, his quiet inquiry elicited a terse, "_No_, I'm _not_ alright."

The terse response in turn elicited an "Oh" and that patented slightly wide-eyed look from Clark.

She sometimes had wonder if he knew how that kicked-puppy look of his had a way of instantly sending the recipient on a guilt-trip. She sighed heavily. "Look…Clark. It's been a long day… A long couple of days, actually. I didn't mean to be so short with you."

Clark was nothing if not forgiving, his expression easily shifting into a sympathetic smile. "That's alright. Things have been kind of…busy."

"You could say that again." She massaged her temples, already beginning to drift mentally away from the conversation and back into her own problems. Or rather, Superman's.

"Maybe you should go home—get some sleep," Clark suggested. "I'm sure Mr. White wouldn't mind. You've been doing about ten men's…er…women's work these last couple of days."

Lois quelled another outburst. She didn't need a break. She'd gotten sleep that night. Well, at least she'd lain down and drifted in and out for a few hours. That counted. At any rate, she certainly didn't need to go home and take a nap at four o'clock in the _afternoon_.

Somehow, Clark got the message even without her saying any of it. Probably had something to do with the exasperated look on her face. Her irritation, as usual, sent Clark into full apologetic I-aim-to-please mode. "I didn't mean you needed a _nap_ or anything, Lois, I just meant you…ah, just look a little tired. That's all. Maybe you don't need sleep or anything but, maybe, just a bite to eat?"

Beaten yet again by the country-boy charm into feeling like a complete jerk, Lois tried to ditch the frustration that made her feel like ranting at the nearest target—aka Clark—or possibly pummeling something or someone into a pulp. "Thanks, Clark. I really appreciate the concern, but I think I'll stick around a while longer. See if anything comes up about the Kryptonite outbreak or Superman's whereabouts." There, that came out well: tired, frustrated, but calm.

Clark had the common sense not to point out that she could just as easily sit in the comfort of her own home and watch TV, since any new information would be broadcasted ASAP. Instead, he offered her one of the universal pacifiers: "Coffee?"

The rational, responsible side of Lois would have said something like, "No thanks, I'm already vibrating on Espresso overload." But, apparently, her vocal cords weren't entirely controlled by her responsible side, since what she actually said was, "That would be really nice—if there's a pot of decaf on." That was reasonable, wasn't it?

"Sure." Clark looked a little hesitant, as if he was afraid he might be pushing his luck, but asked anyways. "Can I get you something out of the vender, while I'm over there…?"

She had to hand it to him, for all his apparent cluelessness, the guy seemed to know what he was doing; if anything could break down the defenses of a woman in a bad temper, it had to be the magical combination of coffee and chocolate. "Anything chocolate would be perfect."

Clark smiled as if she'd paid him some kind of compliment, moving off in the direction of the vending machine.

Lois couldn't help but smile too, shaking her head as he narrowly avoided collision with a man walking briskly down the aisle. What on earth was one to make of Clark Kent? The man was usually like some living, breathing parody of a classic farm-boy/geek/total dweeb. She could just imagine him as a kid, everything about him practically begged bullies to "Pick me! Pick me!" At the same time, he was one of the most down-to-earth and considerate people she'd ever met—if a bit invisible, and downright bashful at times. That was Clark: strange but undeniably endearing. When you remembered he was _there_, that was. Usually, in the work-place, whatever story she was currently occupied with engaged the forefront of her attention.

"Here." Clark was back, bearing both a steaming cup of coffee and a Hersheys bar.

She accepted them from him, taking an appreciative sip of the coffee. "You're a real life-saver. I didn't ever realize how much I needed this until you offered."

"No problem…"

Lois shot him a glance as she unwrapped the chocolate bar. Even for Clark, the reply sounded rather absent-minded. He was looking a little pale now that she took the time to notice. "Hey, you don't look so good yourself. You feeling okay?" Amazing how one square of chocolate, and the promise of the rest of the bar, made you feel not only worlds better, but like you could even show a little less self-absorption. And Clark really _wasn't_ looking that good.

"Me? Oh, no, no… I'm doing great."

Lois raised an incredulous eyebrow. Funny how he could make it sound like a crime to be caught with anything more serious than a head-cold. It wasn't like any of his co-workers set that kind of a precedent…

"Well, I mean, I've got a bit of a headache, but I'm doing okay. I'm actually going to head out soon myself, I think." He jerked his thumb in the general direction of his desk. "I'll just go… wrap up a few things first…"

"Thanks again, Clark. Take care of yourself."

She finished her coffee in-between bites of chocolate, and by the end felt so relaxed she actually could have gotten some work done. But the force of suggestion was making her feel lazy, and going home was beginning to sound pretty attractive. She could haunt the TV from her couch for a while, in the hope that Superman would make an appearance, or at least give Metropolis some sign he was still alive.

As she was preparing to go, the image of a burning building flashed on the TV, with fire-fighters working to extinguish the flames. She paused long enough to hear the catch-phrase of the day: "Still no sign of Superman."

With a sigh, she turned to go, never noticing how Clark had paused to watch as well, or how the shadow of sadness that crossed his features hardened subtly into resolve.

------------------

Green was definitely his least favorite color.

Even the _thought_ of that green substance somehow seemed to make his Clark's headache worse. He'd been honest with Lois, though. It was "just" a headache, albeit a throbbing one that had been steadily present for the last few days. The distracting, pulsing ache behind his eyes was going to drive him mad if he didn't get a reprieve soon.

He probably should have been thankful for the fact that the growing quantity of Kryptonite in the city seemed so far to be having a minimal effect on him. Compared to what he could have been feeling by now, a headache was manageable. Maybe. Problem was, the effect couldn't remain minimal forever, if this mysterious supply of Kryptonite continued to expand.

It was a comfort, and touching, to know that most of the citizens of Metropolis were also worrying on his behalf. But that comfort was limited. Disarming unknown numbers of criminals was a daunting task—the kind of task the newspapers would have heralded as a "Job for Superman". The law was cracking down hard on anyone caught in possession of Kryptonite, and working hard to _find_ everyone who _did _have any. But it was a meticulous and overwhelming undertaking, and as quickly as one man was disarmed, another two seemed to be armed in his stead.

He'd been thinking about the statistics and probabilities all day. Now that he was home, or at least the nearest thing he had to a "home" in Metropolis at the moment, he didn't want to think about it until morning if it was possible. Which it probably wasn't.

Then, of course, there was his biggest dilemma: he had to decide what _Superman_ was going to do about all this. He wouldn't leave, but every day he stayed he ran the risk of being exposed to more Kryptonite than he could handle. Actually, even a small piece fashioned into a weapon, could be enough to finish him. But how could he stay, and _not_ answer the calls for help that continuously beckoned to him from across the city? If he could just get rid of the headache for an _hour, _so he could think straight…

Exhaustion and pain weren't entirely foreign to him, but his childhood experiences were long ago, and he'd been hoping to forget his more recent ones. As he climbed the stairs to his newly-rented apartment, Clark tried, with minimal success, to push the exhaustion and pain that were presently clouding his senses to the background. The accumulative effect of all the Kryptonite surrounding him was making him feel so…human. So weak. He hadn't actually lost any of his powers, technically, but he felt tired like hadn't felt for a long time. Not to mention hungry.

It didn't help that one of his neighbors was, apparently, cooking up quite the meal. He'd smelled the delicious aroma since he first entered, and it had only grown stronger as he approached his door. Wonderful as a meal sounded, cooking anything was the last thing he felt like doing. He was thinking more along the lines of collapsing for a few hours, and selfishly tuning out the world, so that he just might be able to play both Superman and Clark Kent the next day.

As he inserted his key into the lock and began to turn the handle, he realized with surprise that not only were those appealing smells coming from _his_ apartment, but there were also sounds coming from within. He could hear the TV on, and pots and pans being moved around. Perhaps some deranged criminal out to trap Superman had discovered his true identity, gotten into his apartment, made themselves at home and…started cooking. Wouldn't that have been an elaborate trap? he mused wryly, cutting through the door with his x-ray vision—and smiling at what he saw.

"Do you intend to scare your mother to death? Come in here, Clark—I've been worrying about you ever since I heard the news."

He couldn't have asked for a more welcoming sound. Although the words were reproving, they were spoken affectionately and with more concern than accusation. The very loving warmth of her presence seemed, at least for a moment, to hold the Kryptonite's ominous effects at bay. He stepped into his mother's embrace, returning the tender gesture gently.

After she'd apparently satisfied herself that he was there, safe, and to all appearances uninjured, she pulled back a step, though she kept a hand on either shoulder. Her eyes scanned his face, and Clark didn't even try to hide the strain from showing. He'd learned long ago there was no way to fool Martha Kent. "You don't look well at all, my boy. Come over here and have a seat. I've made you some dinner."

"Mom, I—"

"I don't want to hear it." She was already back to bustling around the miniature kitchen. "You've been scaring me half to death, disappearing so suddenly like that after that horrible news, and not calling me, or sending me a message. Now the least you can do is humor me, even if you're not hungry. You used to always say…"

"No, no, it's not like that. I could eat…actually. I haven't had one of your meals in…a long time. It's just—"

She held up an authoritative finger, halting him. "Whatever it is, it can wait. Now take off those ridiculous glasses and _eat_. We'll talk afterwards."

Clark obeyed, folding his glasses and sticking them in his shirt-pocket. But he had to sigh a little. Clark. Superman. Kal-El. All three of them in their respective identities, or combinations, seemed to be taking turns being bullied around by women today. This, however, wasn't something he was loath to comply with.

"Now, tell me what's going on in that mind of yours."

Clark realized he'd been half asleep, staring at his empty plate for some time. Martha sat across from him, regarding him with gentle patience. "I…" He propped an elbow on the counter leaning the side of his face against his palm—and tried to think of what to tell his mother. It was actually quite simple to outline his problem. Not that the problem itself was simple. "I don't know what to do."

She shook her head slowly, now regarding him with gentle amusement. "Of course you _would_ be the only one questioning what should be done."

He frowned in surprise. "The…only one? Are you saying everyone else _knows_ what the solution is here?"

Martha chuckled, still shaking her head. "Oh Clark. You just don't understand, do you?"

"But, mother, how could everyone else have come to a decision? There's so much to consider…"

"Clark," she interrupted. "there's a whole city out there of people who love you as their own, personal hero. You've saved a lot of lives. I don't think there's ever been a question in their minds as to whether or not you should take the risk of exposing yourself right now."

"You…don't?" The frown on his face engrained itself even more deeply.

"No, I don't. I may be biased as your mother, but I think I speak for Metropolis when I say: don't be an idiot." She gave a small, impatient scowl when all Clark did was narrow his eyes thoughtfully and remain silent. "You know it would be idiotic. Don't you? You _do_ know that?"

Hesitating, Clark bit his lip.

Martha groaned. "_Tell_ me you're not that obtuse. You work for the _Daily Planet_—and all the papers are screaming the same thing. No one expects you to be Superman right now, not with Kryptonite everywhere like it is."

"It's not that I haven't read that, I know that…" Clark said quickly. "I know no one expects me to. I know a lot of people seem to be pretty adamantly against it. But..." He looked away. "But I expect it of myself. It feels wrong. I can't abandon Metropolis, not again."

"Who said anything about abandoning? You just can't continue now. In a while—"

"In a while, things will only get worse. It's not that I don't have faith in the police, and everything everyone's trying to do to stop this, but… I don't see how they _can_ stop this. More Kryptonite's coming in every day, I can…feel it. It's not going to get better. And that's why I don't know what to do. If this does get worse, I'll be less than useful. I'll be more of a hindrance. But how can I just leave? Someone has to be orchestrating this—getting rid of me for a _reason_. Which means if I left now, I might very well be abandoning Metropolis when it most needs me." He fell silent, and when his mother didn't reply, he kept his gaze averted, waiting apprehensively for her reaction.

Martha had understanding in her expression, but it was buried under several layers of bittersweet sadness. "You're a good man, Clark Kent. Your father would be proud of you. Both your fathers would be." She sighed, long and heavily. "And I am too. But I don't know if I could stand losing you. Clark…Clark, please, look at me. I know you want to do the honorable thing, you are doing the honorable thing. I guess I…" She gave short laugh. "I guess for once, your mother is wishing you'd grown up to be just little more selfish."

Clark smiled, and reached out across the counter to take her hand. "I'm not dead yet. And I don't plan on taking unnecessary risks."

She didn't point out that his very being in Metropolis was rather an unnecessary risk in her book. "I know, I know…"

"I mean, I know it's all going to be risky… But at this point, I think I should wait, do as much as I can, and see what happens." He watched her expression anxiously, hoping to see acceptance, if not approval, there. "Everyone—the people of Metropolis—they do seem to be kind of…watching my back for me," he offered cautiously, with a small smile.

She smiled back, as genuinely as she could manage. "And they had better do a good job of it, too. You need some looking after."

He grinned.

"Be careful, my boy. Be careful."

"I will, mother."

------------------

What was she doing up here? He hadn't come yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. Superman would find her when he wanted her. If he was still alive.

At the very top of the Daily Planet, Lois gazed out across the skyline of Metropolis. It was near dusk, and the sight reminded her of nights before. Of flying. Of feeling almost immortal, separated from the world, floating above it with Superman. He'd mirrored her own wonderment smilingly, knowingly. He knew the exhilaration of flying on a level of freedom no one else could, and it had been obvious he'd enjoyed seeing her experience it like he did. It had been incredible. She could hardly find the words to describe it. Which was saying a lot, considering her profession.

The wail of sirens broke the wonder of her memory. She shut her eyes tightly, listening to the eerie but all-too-familiar noise fade into the distance.

_Oh Superman… Where _are_ you? Couldn't you have left us some message—_something

Crime hadn't risen by too large a percentage. Yet. But criminals were becoming bolder again, knowing first of all that Superman was missing, and second of all that he wasn't invulnerable anymore. Many of the criminals who were caught had Kryptonite in their possession. If Superman had been the one to stop them instead of the police… _Maybe he did stop one of them, _an uncomforting voice in her head whispered. _Or _tried_ to stop them._

Lois had too many emotions tangled up in this problem, personal, and otherwise. The death of the hero of Metropolis would affect her on more than one level. The thought of all that could happen, and all that could have already happened, sent her unconsciously digging in her purse for a cigarette and lighter. Once she had it out, though, she could only stare at it, and then slowly look to the skies.

_Well, Superman, are you going to come save me from lung cancer or not?_

But the cigarette made it to her mouth without a sign of the superhero making an appearance. She sighed with a self-disparaging roll of her eyes, and lit it. So much for her attempt at a decoy. Plan number two: take a free-fall off the edge of the building? It might work. It might not. In which case she'd go splat. Maybe going out and seeing if she could find a willing mugger might be a less drastic course an action to try first.

"Lois."

The rush of relief-induced adrenaline on hearing his voice made her feel a little light-headed. Well, actually, that was probably equally the fault of all the caffeine and exhaustion, reacting when she spun too quickly to face him. "You're alive…"

He inclined his head, looking a little awkward under the sudden onslaught of scrutiny and visible concern. As if searching for something feasible to say next, he glanced at the cigarette she held, forgotten, between her fingers. "You really shouldn't…smoke."

The cigarette fell from her fingers. Without looking down, she extinguished it with the heel of her shoe. But, in the wake of her relief, she found herself irrationally, uncontrollably _furious_ with him. "How dare you? How dare you disappear without letting anyone know you were still alive? Do you have any idea how much everyone's been worrying about you?"

Superman winced. His presence seemed to be eliciting the same response everywhere lately. But what could he say in his defense—he'd forgotten? That was sure to go over well. He'd been _busy_? "I guess I…"

"—Had more important things to do?" She knew she was going over the top, being too harsh, and probably too dramatic, but—God—it made her feel angry to think of him safe, and not saying a word, while the rest of them worried. "None of us knew what to think, whether you were in hiding, or injured, or captured, or _dead_."

"Lois…I'm sorry," he said quickly, when she stopped to take a breath.

Lois noticed something peculiarly familiar—and decidedly not Superman-like—about the slight stammer he assumed momentarily, along with the sheepish expression on his face. However, she was too worked up to take the time to search her memories for a match. Her wrath was abating, but there was some fire yet unspent. "You can't just keep popping up, save the world a couple of times, make people love you, and then disappear without a word. People care about you, you know. They care about what happens to you."

"I am sorry," he repeated earnestly, meaning it, and this time forcing himself to look her solemnly in the eye.

_Well, so much for staying mad, _Lois thought wryly. There was absolutely no way to do it, not with him turning those sincere and undeniably truthful blue eyes on her, and looking so impossibly young, and intently apologetic. _He _was the one in the wrong here, that was undisputable. So why on earth was she suddenly feeling like a drama queen, and a jerk to boot? If she _was_ being snappish, it was only because he'd been irresponsible and insensitive. However much she might have wanted to hang on to her righteous anger, she found herself saying, in a definitely not-angry voice, "Just, _please_, don't do it again."

"I won't. I promise."

The look of unveiled relief on his face had Lois fighting to hide a smile. Quite a feat, scaring the Man of Steel. The last time she'd looked in the mirror, though, she'd still been a relatively harmless, albeit driven, reporter. Of course, she was nick-named Mad Dog Lane. But she wasn't rabid or anything. She felt relieved herself, though, having received Superman's word of honor on it. He never promised lightly, or "forgot" promises. "So…are you here for an interview?"

"I suppose you could say that." He watched her dig in her purse for her recorder, and added, "Though, I don't think that you will need that. There's not much to tell."

"Oh…really? Why?" She produced the recorder nonetheless, and turned it on. "First of all, where will you go?" Before he could answer, she frowned and flipped it off. "No, wait, that's probably not information the general public should have, since you are, after all, going away to avoid being found by anyone right now… But you could tell me. I swear I won't let a word leak out. It would just be a good idea, in case of emergency, to know where you are so—"

"—Lois."

"—if anything happened where we really, desperately needed—"

"—_Lois_."

She paused in her rant to look at him, as if she'd just remembered he was there. "Yes?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I haven't _been_ anywhere else. I've just been biding my time, seeing how things would unfold for the last couple of days, and now—"

It was Lois' turn to interrupt, as his words sunk in. "You're _not_ going anywhere?"

"No… No, I'm not." He gave a small, humoring smile. "That's just what I said."

Lois didn't smile back. "That's ridiculous!"

Superman winced again. He'd had a feeling the news would not make her happy. When she'd been quiet for so long, he had hoped… But at least she didn't look mad at him. Exactly. She looked more exasperated. He decided silence was definitely the better part of wisdom in this situation, and kept quiet.

She paced in front of him, a few steps one way, and then a few steps the other way, her heels clicking angrily. Her voice was admirably even when she finally spoke, pausing in front of him, arms crossed against the chill. "You can't stay."

"I have to."

"Why?"

He sighed. This conversation was getting to be old. But at least he was practiced. "Because, I can't _go_. I'm not going to leave Metropolis like that again. I'm here to stay now."

Lois muttered something that sounded like "Blue Boy Scout indeed…", and louder, "No one's asking you to leave for good. Just for now. I know it might feel like the cowardly thing to do, but it's also the smart thing to do. And I'll write a front-page article tomorrow. Everyone will know that you left, why you left—and they'll understand."

"_You_ don't understand."

Lois was moving from anger to sarcasm. "Oh, I think I have the full picture. You're back. You're safe. You let the public know you're safe. You leave. You stay alive. Sound simple? That's because it _is_."

"Yes, it does sound simple. But you know if I leave now, I probably won't be able to ever come back. What do you think criminals world-wide would do in the wake of official news of my departure?"

"The police—"

"The police are doing everything that is…"

"Humanly possible?" Lois picked up wryly.

He smiled. "I have a lot of faith in the law of this country. But there's just too much coming in every day…" he trailed off with a sigh, all humor fading.

Lois sometimes operated on a short fuse, like today, but she also knew defeat when she saw it. And she wasn't angry, really. Just scared that Metropolis was going to lose their superhero, and a good man, to some idiot who had been handed a weapon she wouldn't have entrusted to many, much wiser, men. "Well maybe it's time you considered leaving." She struggled to say the words, knowing they were right, but hating them nonetheless, "For good."

"No. I've made my choice. At least for now, I am staying."

How you could hate and be relieved by an answer simultaneously was a mystery, but she was, torn between protesting and accepting. "You really shouldn't stay," she disapproved weakly.

He didn't reply, just looked at her, faintly amused, knowing she had already capitulated.

Seeing that, she stopped making pretences. She studied him, and realized, anxiously, that he didn't look quite his usual indomitable self. His posture, and stance, although still as irreproachably regal as ever, looked more strained than usual, as if he was tempted to let his shoulders slouch forward a little. The drawn expression on his face, and pale cast of his skin, were even more worrying signs that something was wrong. A slight frown, as if he suffered from a perpetual head-ache, was etched into his forehead.

Weariness looked so out of place on him.

"You can…feel it?" she asked quietly.

He nodded. "It's getting worse."

Watching him, and seeing his exhaustion, brought to mind a question she'd thought about before, but never asked. She knew he drew his power from the sun, and thus spent much time "up there", but it hardly seemed like a _home_. "Do you have a home? Not like Krypton, but…a place, here? Where do you go to rest, to recover?" _Do you have someone who makes sure you stop to take care of _yourself _every once in a while? _

"I have a place to stay," he replied simply.

Before Lois could respond, the cry of sirens, faint and far off, caught both their attention. She saw the infinitesimal change that stole over him. Despite the tiredness she could feel emanating from him, his whole body seemed to go taut at the noise, a determined light entering his eyes, and some of the pain easing from his brow as he listened.

She looked at him ruefully, realizing he was as good as mentally gone from the conversation—probably stretching his hearing to seek the source of the problem, already assessing the situation. Maybe she could get one last, quick promise out of him. "I know you need to go now, but please, go to this…place, wherever it is. Get some rest yourself? You've got a whole, Kryptonite-infested city to save—tomorrow."

He was already rising into the air, ready to bolt straight in the direction of the now even fainter sounding sirens, but he spared her a brief smile in parting. "Tomorrow."

"Be careful." He was already gone—but maybe he heard her. Lois whispered it in any case. "Be careful, Superman. You've got a half a city watching your back, and the rest trying to kill you. Let's hope we're the more vigilant."

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**To be continued…**

**Feedback would be hugely appreciated, especially since this is my first time writing in the fandom, and I'm anxious to know what all you expert fans think. :) This being my first time, I appreciate advice, but _please_ go easy on me while critiquing… **


	2. Part 2

**A/N: Wow. Thank you so much for the overwhelmingly positive feedback—I appreciate it! Here's a little action (which I've always found excruciatingly difficult to write). Hope you enjoy it. **

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**Part 2**

Leaving Lois with a last smile, Superman turned to the business at hand, tuning out the sirens below as he passed as he passed over the rushing police cars, scanning ahead for the cause of the disturbance. It was nearing evening, the light beginning to fade, but there were still an assortment of noises to sort through.

Dogs barking.

Doors being closed.

A TV on the sports channel proclaiming: "…and it's a touch down!" against the backdrop of screaming fans.

A child throwing a tantrum.

A running faucet.

"Stop whimpering like that and sit down if you wanna live!"

_That_ caught his attention. The voice led him to a bank, and a quick scan with x-ray vision showed him all he needed to know—a scene he could have guessed at considering the building. It appeared to be a robbery turned hostage situation: three men with guns, and some dozen people cowering on the floor, flinching under their barked commands. Someone had probably activated the silent alarm, hence the police, and the alerted security guards he could see, hidden out of sight of the robbers, but with guns drawn in readiness.

He knew the trick would be disarming all three men before one of them got the bright idea to start shooting people. Luckily, they appeared to be still unaware of their approaching doom, and were only half paying attention to their hostages, two of the three robbers occupied with transferring the money into sacks. Even the more intelligent criminals seemed to instinctively focus on him, automatically shooting at him, despite years of experience, realizing too late that Superman couldn't be shot. _Unless they have some kind of Kryptonite ammunition, _he reminded himself. He'd have to err on the side of caution and avoid shots as much as possible from now on, since there was no knowing. And he'd have to take these men out as quickly as possible for his own sake now, as much as the hostages'.

He considered his options, and decided the window would be the best, most immediate approach. Aiming first of all for the one who had his gun lazily trained on an employee, he smashed through glass. The man only had time for a look of surprise before he was out cold. As he'd hoped, the two other men reacted by lashing out at him rather then any of the hostages. One drew his gun. Superman shot forward to grab his arm, twisting it sharply upwards, carefully controlling his strength to avoid going too far. The man released the weapon with yelp of pain, and a swift knock to the side of his head sent him to join his comrade on the floor.

Superman had kept himself alert for any strong spikes that might indicate the presence of Kryptonite on any of the men. So far, there'd been nothing but the overall insidious feeling he'd been getting for days from the vast amounts he knew were everywhere. As he turned to secure the third man, though, he felt an abrupt shift. The man was reaching for a sheath at his side just as he turned. A flash of green was followed by a sharp stab of pain in his skull, and that familiar reaction of sudden weakness.

Fighting the pain, and confused as to why he hadn't felt the Kryptonite, he kept enough presence of mind to avoid the dagger aimed at his heart. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to avoid it entirely. He bit back a gasp as it embedded itself in his shoulder, and tried to keep control of his reeling senses. Briefly, he wondered if pain was this intense for "normal" people, or if the Kryptonite also increased how much it hurt, or if pain just felt more painful to him because he rarely experienced it.

_Rather ironic that "Superman" would have such a pathetically low threshold of pain… _he thought, gritting his teeth as he quickly grabbed the man's wrist, preventing him from pulling the dagger back out and using it again. But his strength was waning, and the pain of the dagger, shifting in his shoulder at the movement, nearly made him release his grip.

Suddenly, inexplicably, the man released the dagger altogether, stumbling backwards. It took Superman a dazed moment to realize what had happened. The hostages—"hostages" no longer—had come to his defense and were in the process of quite enthusiastically pulling his adversary back and knocking him out. Several of them appeared particularly irate, and looked tempted go the extra mile in restraining him. Half the people in the room seemed eager to get a piece of the man, and the rest held back, watching the proceedings with approval.

In rapid succession, policemen and security guards began pouring in, producing handcuffs to finish securing the now-unconscious robbers. The subsequent ambulance team that arrived right behind them stood in the doorway scanning the room, all of them taking a visible breath of relief at not finding a massacre.

Leaning against a nearby marble pillar for support, Superman attempted to look a modicum stronger than he felt, smiling reassuringly when the medical team's attention became directed at him. Realizing he probably looked anything _but_ reassuring with a dagger protruding from his shoulder, he reached for the handle with his right hand and prepared to pull it out. But a middle-aged woman—the first of the medical team to reach him—tapped his hand away.

"Why don't you wait and let us take care of that," she said, authoritative and gentle at once, eyeing his wound with a tight-lipped expression. "Kryptonite, I presume?" she asked.

He nodded, wincing and touching the hilt again. "I'll be alright, if you can just remove it…"

She tapped his hand away again. "Wait a moment, wait…" And more gently, "Just let us get some bandages ready."

"Thank you, but I'm fine, really," he insisted, refraining, however, from interfering as she continued to examine his shoulder.

"I think you should let me be the judge of that."

He was feeling a little sick. Nauseatingly ill, actually. But all he wanted was that shard of Kryptonite out of his shoulder—and _he_ wanted out ofthe building. The atmosphere, and all the people hovering around him in concern, felt suffocating. And the same question kept thrumming through his mind: why hadn't he sensed the Kryptonite?

The woman seemed to sense his question by his confused expression. While she continued to prepare to remove the dagger, she nodded her head in the direction of the man the police were now in the process of hauling away, being none too scrupulously gentle. "If you're wondering why you didn't have any warning, you might be interested to know that, apparently, the guy was wearing a lead-lined sheath."

Superman nodded, too dazed to do more then acknowledge the answer to his question. Later he could panic at the implications. He clenched his teeth as the hated dagger was finally removed from his shoulder, and then sighed in relief at the lessening of the Kryptonite's immediate effects. Tiredly, he reiterated wearily, "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm fine now."

"Would you stop with that idiotic nonsense already?" The middle-aged woman was back in his face. "You're not going anywhere until I'm satisfied."

He flinched as they began cleaning the wound, checking for any residual pieces of Kryptonite that might remain.

"Here," she motioned towards the gurney. "Why don't you sit down?"

He didn't want to sit down. He wanted to leave. To go anywhere where it wasn't crowded.

"Hey, come on," she insisted. "This isn't a favor, you know, it's just repaying a small part of the debt this whole city owes you." When he still hesitated, she crossed her arms and added, "How come the only time you ever co-operate and let people help _you_ is when you're half-dead or unconscious—or _both_? Why don't you just accept this once, huh?"

Superman sighed. What had he been thinking, earlier, about the women in his life being in a particularly bossy mood? Oh, right. Sometimes the path of least resistance really was the wisest course.

------------------

For the first time in almost a week, Lois had gotten a good night's sleep. It put a little more bounce back into her step, as she entered the office and strode over to her desk, depositing her jacket on the back of her chair.

It was still a constant worry to think of him out there, undergoing the risk of at any time being exposed to who-knew-how-much Kryptonite. But at least she'd seen him now. That was some consolation, to know he was still alive. Or had been last night. She hoped that parting smile of his had meant he'd take her advice and lay low for at least that evening.

She'd called up Perry as soon as possible, and the news of Superman's appearance, as well as his intent to stay, was already circulating. For better or worse, the overall population—criminals included—knew Superman was back at work, and had no intention of abandoning Metropolis soon.

She wondered if the criminals were retreating, daunted that _he_ hadn't been frightened away, or if they were sharpening their knives in anticipation. _And preparing whatever other kinds of Kryptonite weapons they've invented by now. _She didn't much like following that train of thought. But she wouldn't be surprised if the evilly-inclined master-minds of Metropolis had taken Lex Luthor's idea of a weapon, as simple shard of the mineral, to whole new heights. It didn't look like they'd be lacking in supplies of Kryptonite to test ideas on. She knew her own mind flew instantly to ideas—ideas that she hoped no one else would think of and implement.

"Hey Lois," Clark greeted, stopping on his way past her desk. "You're looking a lot better today."

"Yeah, thanks. I'm feeling a lot better too. It took a weight off my mind to know Superman was alright. Would you believe I actually got some _sleep_ last night?" Her return smile of greeting faded. He was turning away with a nod to return to his own desk, but she stopped him with, "Say, _you_ don't look much improved today."

An ironic smile twisted his mouth. "Gee, Lois, I know everyone kinda thinks of me as a geek, but there's no reason to rub it in…"

His sense of humor caught her off-guard. For some reason, she'd never really stopped to consider that _he_ might recognize his own dweeb-ishness, as he apparently did, at least to some extent. _Then why doesn't he do something to change the fact?_ she wondered to herself.Belatedly, she realized she that should have said something witty right back at him—laughed at the idea, or automatically denied it, or something. "Oh, ah…Clark, _I_ don't think of you as a…geek," she said at last.

Clark didn't answer that one. He just smiled a slightly amused but polite smile, as if to say he knew he was a geek, and that she was lying, and didn't really mind either. Which only went along with everything that was geek-ish and Clark-like.

Well, power to The Geek. He'd definitely caught her at loss—even made her a little uncomfortable—something she prided herself in rarely allowing to happen. But finally Lois rallied, remembering the purpose of her comment in the first place. "You really don't look too good, Clark—and, no, I don't mean _that,_" she amended with a smiling shake of her head. "I mean, you don't look good health-wise. Maybe you should take today off. Don't want to work yourself into an early grave." The oft-used, and rather exaggerated, cliché seemed more applicable than usual. Clark had looked pale yesterday, as if he might be coming down with the flu. Today he looked like he _had_ it. A bad case of it. And some exhaustion to top it off with.

Someone else might have pointed out to Lois that she might want to use the cliché for herself a little more often, but Clark just looked thoughtful for a moment, then said in his soft-spoken way, "Uh…no, I don't think so. Maybe tomorrow. Things are still kind of busy around here."

"Well, okay… Take it easy, though." She didn't argue further. In all probability, Perry would order him home before the day was out if he started looking any worse than he did already. Clark never got sick, but boy, apparently when he got sick he _really_ got sick.

Jimmy walked past, grinning at the two of them. "Hey, good to have our superhero back in town—huh?" He landed a friendly punch to Clarks shoulder and moved on down the aisle.

Lois was certain she'd heard something—a sharp exhale of breath approaching a gasp—but when she looked to ascertain from Clark's expression if he'd made the noise of pain, he was already turned away, arms wrapped around his torso as he shuffled his way towards his own desk. She really should have a word with Perry about convincing Clark to take a break. For now, though, she had work to do. She put her fingers to the keyboard, and felt more energy to type than she had for a while.

Every once in a while, she glanced up at the TV mounted nearby. Newsflashes were constantly being reported, and lots of them involved Superman. For a while, everything had been abuzz with discussion of his absence and the reason for it. Possible answers had gone around ad nauseum. Now everyone was practically gloating with the happy turn of events. Reporters almost invariably had smiles, half-smiles, or downright grins, on their faces as they reported Superman's safety. Many more went on to soberly report that Superman would be continuing to protect the city, despite the risks.

Lois watched all of it with half her attention, focusing primarily on writing up her latest interview with Superman. A preliminary head-line article had already aired that morning, but Perry wanted a detailed one from "Superman's press-agent". She sighed as she tried to recall all the vital information. What had he said when she'd tried to tape-record their conversation—"I don't think that you will need that"? _Right. _She should have known better. Since when did she have short and inconsequential conversations with _Superman_?

Coming to a standstill in her writing, or, rather, her _remembering_, Lois watched gazed off into space—then decided gazing off at the TV might be more productive. A reporter was interviewing citizens at random, asking them their opinion to the question: "What do you think Superman should do: go or stay?" It was pretty easy to see which way the reporter herself leaned. It was almost as if they were doing the whole thing just to say, "You hear us, Superman? This is what everyone thinks."

A wry smile crept onto Lois' face as she watched one after another give the same opinion. The very same one she'd given so strongly to the superhero himself the other night. Why was he the only one who didn't _get_ _it_? Although she had, technically, given up last night, she still held out hope that he might see the common sense that everyone else saw so easily.

"…Yes, Superman _is_ back, and back to helping. Last night, he foiled a bank-robbery that turned into what could have been an ugly hostage situation."

Lois listened with more attention to a reporter who stood in front of a bank. So that had been what the sirens were about. Unless, of course, he had gone on to do more than one good deed the other night. _Superman doesn't lie. But he certainly knows how to avoid giving you a solid answer when he wants to, _she thought, recalling the smile he'd given her before leaving, and now imaging it as having more of an evasive quality to it than a confirming one.

"…unfortunately, some of the general populace's concerns have already been realized in the course of the incident," the reporter continued. "After he succeeded in restraining two of the thieves, the third pulled a Kryptonite dagger on Superman…"

Out of her peripheral vision, Lois saw that she wasn't the only one who was hearing the news for the first time. But, hearing it for the first time, she didn't have much attention to spare for observations like that.

"…He _is_ alright, although the thief did manage to stab him in the shoulder before some of the angry former hostages," there was definitely a small quirk around the edges of the reporter's mouth there, "restrained him as well. We have some short footage from last night, with Superman looking a bit worse for wear, but the medical team on-site confirmed that he isn't in any danger from the wound…"

Lois shook herself out of the daze she'd slipped into, listening to the onslaught of information, and focused on the TV screen as an ashen-looking Superman came into view. A middle-aged woman was bandaging his arm, and although he was allowing it, as well as saying a few calm words for the camera, he looked ready to bolt.

Despite that, and his alarming pallor, Superman had that reassuring, slightly self-conscious, smile fixed to his face as perpetually as ever.

"I'm alright. I'm…fine, as you can see," he was saying in response to the reporter's inquiries.

"Are you sure?" the reporter continued—with very unhidden and un-reporter-ly concern—and then made a switch in tactics, apparently sensing the futility of the question. "How is this sudden influx of Kryptonite affecting you?"

"Well, it's not _good_, obviously. But I'm managing."

_Yet another example of Superman's evasive abilities, _Lois thought. Whatever he was doing, it hardly looked like "managing". More like…well…working himself into an early grave.

She was half hoping the efficient-looking woman bandaging Superman's shoulder might drag him off to the hospital. It was not to be. Superman rose as soon as the medical team was finished, with a quiet, "Thank you."

_Gratitude's never misplaced, Superman—but I think we were all hoping for something more like, "Fine, I surrender. Take me to the hospital.", or even "You're right. I should be in a lead-lined building surrounded by police."_ _Try a little less gratitude, and more of _that

But, even with a steady stream of exasperated sarcasm running through her mind, it was as impossible as ever to be really mad at him, as it had probably been for anyone who'd been on the scene. Especially considering the way Superman paused intentionally to level a sincere gaze at everyone around him—especially focused on the former hostages and medical team—and reiterated gratefully, "Thank you, all of you, for helping me." He nodded in recognition of the various murmurs of, "No problem Superman.", "We'd all do it again.", and one particularly bold, "Yeah, we'd do it again—but that doesn't mean you have permission to go getting yourself into more trouble." Superman smiled genuinely at that, and then he was gone.

Lois sighed, and sat back in her chair. One thing was for sure: she'd be taking many more optimistic trips to the top of the _Daily_ _Planet _building in the days to come.

------------------

"Clark," Martha reprimanded in her best shame-on-you tone, "sit still—stop squirming around like a five-year-old."

"I'm not…squirming," Clark protested, promptly squirming.

"Yes you are. Now stop it." Martha gripped his bicep firmly, gently removing the bandage that covered his shoulder.

"I really do appreciate the concern, and I don't think I did have trouble yesterday fitting all the bandaging under two layers of clothes. But really, mom, I don't need it to be replaced every day. I need to get to work…"

"I know you're a fast healer, _Superman,_ but I don't want to take the risk of this getting infected. You didn't give me the chance to take a look at you yesterday, and I'm going to today."

"The medics checked to make sure there was no residual Kryptonite, and cleaned it thoroughly, believe me."

"Clark, just humor your mother."

"Normally I would, you know I would, but I'm really going to be late—it's hard work maintaining two identities."

She shot him a completely unpitying look. When Martha Kent was upset, she could be merciless.

"They _did_ make sure it was clean…" he muttered.

She ignored him, pursing her lips as she examined his injury. She did blanch a little bit at first, and seemed hesitant to touch it now that the healing, but still slightly swollen, wound that was revealed. "Oh Clark…"

"Mom, it's not that bad," he said, feeling even more sheepish under her concern than her wrath. "I've had worse."

It was the wrong thing to say. Reminding her of the times he'd come close to possibly dying wasn't going to reassure her. "I know," she said, tersely. "I've seen worse happen to you, found out every detail—on _TV_." She rose abruptly, crossing her arms and striding over to the window.

Clark winced when he saw the way her eyes were glistening as she turned away from him. This was not good. Making Perry angry by being late, even by an hour or two, would be _nothing_ in comparison to what could happen if he left here, now. Besides, guilt was gnawing at him voraciously, refusing to leave, or let him leave. What was the matter with him? Why couldn't he keep even _one_ of the women in his life happy? He loved Lois, and his mother, so much—they meant the world to him—so why couldn't he ever do or say the right thing? Women were bewildering to him, and he didn't mind admitting it.

He got his feet, moving slowly towards his mother, listening to her tell-tale sniffling with trepidation, and tentatively put his hands on her shoulders. He was relieved when she didn't pull away. Then he just waited, wordlessly, knowing by experience that sometimes the best way to start a conversation with an angry woman was _not_ to start it. Besides, quite frankly, he wasn't entirely certain what she was angry about, and it wouldn't do to start apologizing for "whatever it was he'd done wrong." But he _was_ sorry—for whatever it was.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me?" Martha began at last. "Whether you're Clark Kent, or Kal-El, or Superman, you're my boy; but I can only openly acknowledge Clark as my son." She took a fortifying breath. "And he's never the one in the hospital fighting for his life."

Oh. So that was it. Now he was beginning to understand.

She didn't give him time to reply, though. "When you almost died this last time, I only found out after the fact, on TV, or the paper. There's nothing a mother dreads quite so much as receiving news that one of her children is hurt. I don't even receive that courtesy—I just get it blasted at me by the media without forewarning. When I heard, at last, I couldn't stand being so far away, so I came to Metropolis." She turned around to look him in the eye, a few tears trailing down her cheeks. "I'm your _mother_, Clark, and all I could do was stand in the crowd with everyone else and hope and pray. You don't know how badly I wanted to see you—just _see_ you."

Clark listened patiently, keeping his hands gently gripping her shoulders. He felt her pain, but he didn't know how to change it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She laughed at his confused expression, reaching up to wipe away her tears. "My dear boy, I know what you do is a hundred times more important than making some old woman from Smallville happy."

He shook his head. "But I want to make you happy."

"I know you do. But there are some things more important than what either one of us wants." She sighed, but smiled at the same time. "Things like saving the world countless times. I just wish…" She shook her head, cutting herself off. "You're doing exactly what you should be, and I'm just being a selfish mother." She reached up to place a gnarled hand on one of his. "I know what you're doing is the right thing, but sometimes I catch myself wishing you weren't quite as extraordinary and gifted as you are, so I could keep you to myself a little more often. Every bone in my body protests against letting you go back out there and risk your life for strangers."

"I know, mom. I want that too sometimes—to just have a normal life. But I tried getting rid of these…gifts I have once before. And it was wrong, _I_ felt wrong. Sometimes it might feel more like a curse, but it's what I am."

She looked away, eyes closed, face pained but understanding. "I know that too, Clark. I didn't mean to get all worked up, or go on like this, I—"

"I'm glad you did. I hate it when I feel like there's something between us."

She patted his hand, shaking her head vehemently at the suggestion. "Oh…Clark. Is that what you thought, that I was mad at _you_? I'm not mad at you—expect for maybe being more honorable than anyone expects you to be. I'm not mad at anyone, really. I'm just mad at this whole…situation. But I tell you, if I could get my hands on whoever's behind this strange Kryptonite business…"

The vagueness of her ending sounded truly sinister, and Clark couldn't help laughing.

"What?" she questioned indignantly. "I may be old, but I assure you there's enough strength left in these arthritic hands of mine to throttle them, whoever they are. They're the ones responsible for…" Recalling suddenly what had begun the whole conversation, her eyes landed on the yet-to-be re-bandaged wound. "Oh heavens, here I stand sobbing my heart out to you like some emotional young thing, and I haven't even finished with that wound of yours—and now you're going to be late."

Clark tried not smile too obviously, but it was amusing to see the abrupt change, and her new-found concern for him being on time for work.

She rushed to re-bandage his arm with minimal gauze so as to keep it from bulging too noticeably under his suit and stood back, examining her handiwork with satisfaction. The whole situation now reminisced very much of days long gone by: a younger Martha sending a much younger Clark off to school in a flurry of preparations.

"Now, finish getting dressed." She handed him a white shirt. "Here, you had a tear in this one, but I mended it and ironed it for you."

Her rushed activities left him somewhat behind, but he gathered his thoughts enough to remember one important detail, stopping her before she'd completely left the room. "Thank you, mom, but, uh…I can't find my suit. The _other_ suit, that is."

"That's because I have it. It does need some mending after last night's escapade, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, but, there's just one minor problem…"

"You can have it back tonight, Clark. I'll have it done by then." She closed the door, effectively deciding the argument.

He finished dressing and grabbed his house keys. Martha was waiting in the living room.

"Have a good day at work, Clark," she called after him, as he opened the door to leave—there was a touch of irony in her voice. At least for today, her boy would be going to a completely "normal" job, no risks to life or limb involved.

"Thanks, mom." He paused. "And thanks for coming here. But if you need to go soon, I'll understand. I mean, I know Ben and you…"

She waved him off. "Ben understands. He told me to take as much time as I need. And I intend to, as long as you need me."

He smiled. "Put it that way, and you'll end up staying here forever."

She smiled too. "Go on, get going or you'll get yourself fired. Can't have Superman losing his source of income."

"Bye mom."

Clark left, feeling at peace despite the throbbing behind his eyes, and the fact that disaster was pending all around him, and snares could be being laid anywhere for Superman. At least he'd sorted things out with one of the women in his life. Lois might be a little bit harder, but he wasn't going to give up trying.

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**To be continued…**

**Next part will probably be a little while in coming, since I'm leaving on vacation. _But_, I will try to find some time to work on writing the rest of this, so there should be more coming after I return (and there's a slim possibility of an update while I'm gone, if I get the internet connection and time). **

**Again, thank you for all the wonderful reviews! They've been an instant Muse jump-starter. :) **


	3. Part 3

**A/N: Wow! Thanks for the wonderful repeat of wonderful reviews, and for your patience while I was away. :) **

**I'd just like to mention one thing before I get too much further into the story. This story is not going to have a very deeply developed villain. There is a villain, but I was really far too caught-up in writing the heroes and heroines to care that much about him. LOL—this was actually only going to be one or two sections long (it is currently 6, and will probably be 7 or 8 total), but I got so interested in the characters, it took on a life of its own. So, as much as I usually like to have a solid, well-developed villain, this is really more about character studies (seeing them under the stress of the plot), than about a well-honed villain. ;) **

**Oh, and also, I guess I should mention that Batman begins (lovely pun, no?) in this chapter--and he ended up getting nearly as intertwined in the plot as Superman. Hope you enjoy! **

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**Part 3 **

Floating in a half-restful state through the solitary limitlessness of space, Kal-El listened to the music that was Metropolis' night-life. Well, it was music to _his_ ears, no matter how many babies blasted him with their wailing and tantrums—when all was well, and the people were safe. Which was rare.

He kept his eyes closed, and all senses, save hearing, unfocused. It felt good to be this far away from the Kryptonite infecting Metropolis. He felt more like Superman, and less like a truly human, and fully klutzy, Clark Kent with a hangover. With his headache diminishing somewhat, he realized just how alarmingly weak he'd been beginning feel.

Usually he rested up here, weightless, reassuringly close to the sun and stars, and felt renewed, ready to spring into action the moment he heard the first call of distress. He'd never anticipated people being in trouble, but he'd anticipated the opportunity to help them. Now, however, he realized guiltily that he was dreading hearing that call for his help. As he "dialed" through the noises below, sorting them in a systematic manner, much like turning the knob on a radio, he was all but cringing as he tested each sound.

Every once in a while, he would shift his hearing to focus on Martha or Lois, and after assuring himself they were alright, return doggedly to listening to the rest of the city. He berated himself for his unwillingness. He was staying here for these very people, not to selfishly sit by because he was feeling lazy. He couldn't waver when the next cry for help came, even if it meant plunging right back into the Kryptonite-polluted atmosphere below. His hesitancy could mean someone else's life.

He hadn't corrected his mind-set too soon. An elderly woman's voice, pitched in alarm and righteous indignation, grabbed his attention. He latched on to the sound, and shot off in its direction, fire igniting in the wake of his speed.

He found what he was looking for quickly: the kind of a scene that never failed to arouse his anger. A grey-haired woman, purse clutched under one arm, and a package under the other, was surrounded by three rough-looking men. From the way they were staggering, and their voices slurring, they were obviously more than a little inebriated. The woman was defending her possessions with glares and a generous amount of verbal abuse. Neither of which fazed any of them in the slightest. A valiant effort on her part, but one Superman would normally have discouraged—things were replaceable, life was not. However, in this case, he was here, and fully intended to ensure the woman retained _both_.

As the boldest of the three men lunged forward to grab for the woman's purse, laughing at her frightened reaction, Superman shot down, quickly inserting himself directly between them.

Over the years, Superman had come to rather enjoy the reaction that invariably followed his unexpected appearances. It could be a rewarding sight, especially when it came from cowards such as these. Then it was _priceless_. There was the initial surprise, followed by the life-preserving instinct to recoil, and often concluded with them futilely reacting in a desperate last attempt at defense. It was in the delay between the latter two, surprise and recoil, that Superman was so often tempted to make remarks to their degradation.

The abundance of alcohol in their bloodstreams made the delay in this case particularly long. He had plenty of time to comment. "Bored, gentlemen? Next time, I'd suggest you find someone more suited to your level of fighting ability." The men were regrouping, but still occupied mostly with gawking. "This lady was obviously about to teach you a lesson—but I'm sure if you just give up now, there won't be a need for any of that unpleasantness."

_Aha_. So they weren't _so_ drunk that insults didn't penetrate.

One of them men—apparently not the brains of the outfit—was groping with one hand at his belt, muttering, "Where's the…the thing you were sayin' we had to have, 's not here…"

"_I've_ got it," the man directly in front of Superman growled, menacing confidence layering the already enraged expression on his face.

_Not again… _Superman groaned inwardly, just before he was blasted with the hated presence of Kryptonite. As had been the true last time, it felt incredibly potent, but with a particular, sharp edge to it that seemed to slice right through his brain the second he was exposed. At least this time he had enough time to react, and avoid being stabbed again—and it was another dagger, not a gun with Kryptonite bullets. But there were three of them, and only one of him.

The pain in his shoulder from his previous wound seemed to have reawakened, throbbing intensely as he struggled for possession of the dagger. The weapon was pulled towards him, away from him, towards him again, the potency of its effect battering him every time it came closer. But potent it was at all times. Superman could feel its insidious clutches tightening around him like a vice, making it hard to breathe. Still, he struggled. In the back of his mind, he was hoping the old woman, for all her obvious tenacity, had the common sense to use this time to slip away.

Using every last piece of energy he possessed, Superman wrested the weapon from the other man, and let it fall to the pavement with clatter. He wasn't prepared for the blow from behind, as one of the other men slammed a knee into his lower back. He stumbled forward, but managed to duck the fist coming at his head.

Usually, for him, fights progressed in a fluid and easily controlled sequence of events. His "superhuman" strength allowed him to prevail in situations such as this, usually without harming his opponent, or opponents. That was, obviously, preferable. The situation he found himself in, however, was far from ideal. He was fighting for his life, and had the decided disadvantage of being unused to having to exert his entire strength in order to succeed. He was used to holding back, recognizing the sometimes frightening extent of his strength, and not wishing to waste lives unnecessarily, regardless of what kind of person the life belonged to.

The blows continued to rain down on him, and he knew now was one of those rare chances where it was necessary to use all his strength. What little he possessed was pathetic as it was. He focused primarily on hindering any of his attackers from reclaiming the Kryptonite blade at his feet. He made a move to kick it as far away as possible. If he could just get it far enough away from him, for just a moment… But one of the men lunged at him, and he was forced to focus on defending himself.

He was fending off the one, when the other two grabbed his arms simultaneously. Pained, exhausted, and worn down by the presence of the Kryptonite, he felt unusually susceptible to the almost claustrophobic fear of the moment. It wasn't easy to erase the panic and confusion he'd felt the last time he'd received such a beating, at the hands of Lex Luthor's men. It had nearly been his death. This situation felt terrifyingly similar.

It took effort, but he turned his mind away from those thoughts. The man in front of him was leaning over, reaching to pick up the dagger. He threw his weight abruptly backwards, sending the two men restraining him toppling over. Regaining his own balance as quickly as possible, he rose in time to kick the dagger out of reach of the man in front of him. With a curse, the drunken man took a poorly-aimed swing at him. Superman side-stepped, ducking again as the attempt was repeated, with equally bad aim. Only this time, instead of missing his intended target and hitting empty air, his opponent's fist connected with the unyielding solid brick wall Superman was backed up against.

The man yelped in pain, stumbling backwards—but was replaced quickly by one of his companions. Superman didn't have the time to check on the whereabouts of the third man. He felt as if he was going to be sick any moment, his muscles ached, and jolts of pain shot through his wounded shoulder with every movement. Even with all that weighting him down, and through the fog of Kryptonite-induced weariness, everything within him rebelled against the idea actually utilizing all his strength to take these men down. To go all out. To possibly kill them. _And if you don't, this can only end in them killing _you The inner-voice of reason that answered his brief hesitation sounded incredibly like his father's, calmly stating the obvious.

_Just don't think about it… _Superman gritted his teeth—partly against the pain, and partly against that side of him which would have continued to hesitate—and landed a solid punch to directly at the face of the man presently charging him. It turned out there was some strength left in him after all, if not quite enough to knock the man unconscious.

Superman took the brief respite he was given to draw himself up and take a couple of deep breaths. The man who'd lost the contest with the wall was glaring angrily at him from a short distance, rubbing his doubtless throbbing knuckles. The man he'd just punched was rubbing his jaw, anger edging its way back onto his face as well, although the better part of him still looked dazed, utterly drunk, and a little nervous too. The third man… Superman frowned, as he realized he all but forgotten about his third adversary. Even while trying to maintain his focus on the two men encircling him, he glanced around the darkened ally out of his peripheral vision.

He finally spotted the third man, blood-shot eyes filled with hate, and green dagger in hand, poised to throw. Then Superman received help in one of the most unexpected and unconventional ways imaginable. A purse, of all things, came swinging out of the dark to connect solidly with the man's head. The man toppled forward with an "ooph". Superman didn't have time acknowledge his elderly accomplice. There were still the two other men, who, although they looked increasingly panicky, also looked increasingly explosive with the third member of their party taken out by an old woman.

In the end, fear appeared to be the winning emotion with the man of the newly swollen jaw, as he began to back away instead of forward. His friend, the obvious ring-leader of the three, shot his more timid companion a wrathful looked that screamed "Coward!", but looked more apprehensive himself, without his two friends-in-crime supporting him. The Man of Steel didn't look up to par, but he could obviously still do some damage. Now that he thought about it, he didn't actually know where the Kryptonite dagger was, it might have been far enough away that it wasn't effecting Superman at all any longer…

Reading their doubts, and seeing victory close at hand, Superman leveled the leader with his steely gaze, and smiled. He might not have been as close to victory as he'd thought, but the smile—as full of knowing self-confidence as he could manage—was their undoing.

------------------

Bruce Wayne knocked on the door to Clark's apartment for a third time. He sighed when, once again, no answer met his knock.

"Come on, Clark…" he muttered, then, louder, he called out, " Clark, are you there? It's Bruce."

He hadn't come all this way just to go away and come back later. He was worried about his friend, had been ever since word of the Kryptonite influx had reached Gotham. In his experience, neither Clark _nor_ Superman knew how to take proper care of themselves. Not that he was without understanding. Being a "superhero" took its toll, and you had to be intensely dedicated to "your" city. Batman wasn't above forgetting to eat or sleep on occasion. The problem was, Superman took responsibly for much of the world, in addition to Metropolis, and sometimes seemed to forget his own needs altogether.

_Try being a little more self-centered, would you? Demand better work-hours, or _something_. You're making the rest of us look downright lazy, you overachieving boy scout… _Bruce smiled wryly, shaking his head. Like that was going to happen.

It was obvious Metropolis was doing its best to watch out for its superhero. You had but to pick up a newspaper to see that. But when their superhero refused to stay out of danger, there was only so much anyone could do.

No. He wasn't giving up. Bruce had already decided that. If he had to, he'd wait inside until Clark decided to make an appearance. If he didn't make an appearance, then he'd have to go looking for him. Being slightly more gravitationally-bound—if scientifically and technologically aided—than his friend, he was hoping plan A would work out. But he couldn't count on everything going smoothly. Saturday morning it might be, but in either persona Clark was an acclaimed workaholic.

The only thing he foresaw going _smoothly_ was his entrance into the apartment: Clark had given him a key, and thus he would be able to simply unlock the door, rather then break it down. So what if it wasn't exactly something to cheer over? It was somethingsimple, in a day that was probably going to prove anything but straightforward. Though, actually, considering his mood, breaking down a door might have been made a desirable outlet. Far preferable to breaking a few necks, as he was tempted to do—that had to wait until he knew which necks were in need of breaking.

One more knock. If Clark didn't answer, he was going in. He slipped one hand into his pocket to retrieve the key while he gave the door one last rap with his knuckles. " Clark, I'm coming in." _Ready or not._ There was no response, so he inserted the key in the lock, and turned the handle.

Inside, it was shadowy, with no lights turned on, and the shades drawn. While his eyes acclimated to the dark, Bruce groped along the wall for a switch. When he finally found one, and turned the main light on, he was in for a surprise.

First came the startling realization that he was not alone, as he'd expected to be after knocking so many times and receiving no answer. Secondly, and hardly less startling, was the realization that the haggard figure on the couch was, in fact, _Clark_.

" Clark…?" Instinctively, he spoke in a whisper—then rolled his eyes at his own obtuseness. If Clark hadn't responded to all the noise he'd been making a moment ago… The thought sent him hurrying towards the couch.

He felt to his knees and reached out to check for a pulse. It was strong and steady. Bruce closed his eyes briefly in gratitude, then reopened them, brow furrowed in concern. What on earth was Clark doing out in his living room, sprawled across the couch, deeply asleep—or possibly unconscious—and dressed in a suit?

_Suit, as in of the nerdy news-reporter variety… _Bruce mused wryly, scanning his friend's rumpled clothes with a small smile. Either he'd been to work, come back home, and not bothered to change out of them, or he'd fallen asleep in his clothes before he could get to wherever he had been heading. At least, those were two of the most plausible, Clark-like, and optimistic theories he could think of. No visible injuries being apparent, he decided to stick to his theories until proven otherwise. Optimism wasn't so bad, once you got used to it.

_Time to rise and shine, Superman. _

" Clark?" Bruce shook his shoulder. " _Clark_." He shook him harder, but to no avail. "Come on, farm boy, wake up and tell me about all the trouble you've been getting yourself into lately."

As if some silent alarm had gone off in his head, Clark sat up with a jolt. "What… Trouble?" Bleary, mildly alarmed blue eyes blinked tiredly at him. That, combined with the way his dark hair was falling over his forehead and into his eyes, at the moment Bruce could entirely understand why no one ever bothered to compare Clark Kent to Superman.

Bruce patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Easy there, Boy Scout. No trouble at present."

Clark was obviously having trouble putting things together. He narrowed his eyes at Bruce in confusion. "I heard…"

"Yeah, that would have been me."

Clark was gaining more awareness. Slowly. "Bruce…what are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"Took the words right out of my mouth. I could ask you the same two questions."

Some of the awareness he'd gained eluded Clark once more. "What do you mean? You're the one making sudden appearances in my living room…"

Bruce's amusement was growing by leaps and bounds. _You can drop the Clark-act _Clark—_no need to act so oblivious just for my sake. _"Do you always make a habit of sleeping out here on the couch?" He examined the room they occupied with a sweeping glance. "It's kind of small, and I know sleeping isn't high on your list needs or wants, but tell me you got a _bedroom_ with this place—just for a show of normality?"

Clark rubbed his forehead absently. "Oh…yes. It has a bedroom. And, no, I don't usually prefer the couch. I just kind of…dozed off, I guess." As if finally reaching full consciousness, and recognition of his surroundings—as well as of the fact that Bruce was still kneeling beside the couch— Clark shook his head and motioned to a chair. "Why don't you sit down, or, rather…_up_, in this instance. Why are you sitting on the floor, anyways?"

Bruce pushed himself up off the floor and fell into the indicated chair, contemplating Clark with lingering concern behind his ever-casual manner. "Because, my friend, you were all but dead to the world and refused to answer, for all the noise I created. I planned on waiting in here until you returned, only to find upon entering that you _were_ here."

"I didn't…wake up?"

"No, you didn't." Bruce gave a lop-sided grin. "I'm not a timid knocker, either, you were really out of it."

"Must have been."

Clark looked like he wanted to shrug it all off, but Bruce wasn't about to let him. "Running yourself a bit ragged these days?"

"You could say that."

"Okay." Bruce nodded. "Let's make it a statement of fact then: you've been running yourself ragged these days."

"A _bit_ ragged," Clark retorted with abnormal irritation. "Quote yourself correctly."

"Want to tell me what kind of stuff you're running yourself ragged doing? Any problems the reporters haven't latched onto yet?" Bruce added almost disinterestedly, "Any…hidden injuries you might want to tell your friend about?"

"No."

"Not even to your best, most dependable, and loyal friend? You wouldn't tell even him?"

"Yeah, I might tell _him_—if I had any injuries to speak of."

Bruce wasn't easily taken in. He lowered his voice to a more Batman-deep level, and pressed him solemnly, "Then you mind telling me exactly why you were all but unconscious a minute ago?"

"I wasn't unconscious."

To Bruce, Clark sounded very much like I child insisting he wasn't his bed-time yet. His friend didn't look well, not by a long shot. "Maybe not. But, for you, being so deeply asleep you couldn't hear me _yelling_ out in the hall, is almost as abnormal." The way Clark winced as he leaned forward to rest his head in his hands was not lost on Bruce. "Come on, Clark."

"Alright, so a couple of drunks got the better of me last night. Temporarily. So what? I'm fine now."

"They had Kryptonite?"

"A knife, yes."

Bruce felt his anger surge to the top. He knew it was at the men who'd attacked his friend—anger in Clark's behalf—but right now Clark was the only one he had to yell at. "Good God, they didn't stab you, did they? You should be in the emergency room not sitting around here if—"

"No, they didn't stab me. Like I said, they just had the advantage temporarily." Clark shot him a sheepish half-smile. "You'd think Superman would know how to fight better than a couple of drunken louts, wouldn't you?"

"They beat you up?" Bruce asked in consternation.

"Not…exactly." Clark winced at the memories.

A though hit Bruce. Not a pleasant one. Superman was known for his rather idealistic morals—and Bruce knew from personal experience that reputation wasn't just a rumor. "Tell me you didn't just _let_ them beat the…" He decided his friend probably wouldn't appreciate the choice of words, and switched to, "…knock you around."

"Of course not," Clark said indignantly—but there was a hesitancy in his voice that indicated the thought had occurred to him. He confessed as much a second later. "It was hard. I'm not used to having fight with the intention of killing, if necessary. Apparently, I'm a little dependent on my 'powers'." Another sheepish glance. "Maybe you could give me a few tips for next time."

"There isn't going to be a next time…" Bruce muttered, clenching and unclenching his jaw a couple of times. He was definitely in full Dark Knight mode now.

"What?" Clark laughed. "You came here to be my bodyguard?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow, authoritative and serious. "If that's what it takes to keep you alive until this situation is settled." He shrugged. "Sure."

Clark stopped laughing. "Seriously, Bruce, why are you here?"

Bruce stared blankly at him. "I'll give you three guesses."

Clark shook his head. "Bruce, I'm _trying_ to be serious, here. Could you stop with the sarcasm and guessing games? Is something wrong in Gotham?"

"Um…_no_," Bruce replied in his best "_duh_" voice. "I came here, because something's wrong in _Metropolis_. I heard it was having a little problem with Kryptonite being rampant on the streets, becoming a common-place weapon in the arsenal of criminals, being handed out right and left… Don't tell me you haven't been reading the newspapers, _Clark_."

"You came here because of that?"

"Yeah. I came here because of that."

"Thanks, Bruce, but the police are doing everything they can. Short of personally interrogating criminals in order to trace possession back to the original distributors, I don't—"

"Sure, I could do that."

"I believe torture is rather looked down upon in this country," Clark said, raising both eyebrows.

Bruce smirked. "Hey, who said anything about torture? I look pretty impressive in black."

"You mean dressed like a _bat_," Clark corrected, matching his smirk.

"If you're going to start making fun of my outfit…"

"Never. Everyone knows better than to make fun of Batman." Clark paused. "You're really here to stay and help for a while? What about Gotham?"

Bruce sighed. " Gotham can wait for a small while. Right now, I think Metropolis could do with some extra help. Or, rather, you could."

Clark mouth curved into an ironic smile as he glanced down at his bedraggled outfit. "Oh, I look like I need help, do I?" His smile turned more genuine. "Thanks, Bruce. My mom's doing everything she can, and although I'm sure she'd give it a try, I think I'll feel better if _you_ would be the one venturing into any dark alleys."

"Your mom?"

"Yes. She's been staying here with me for a couple of days, making sure I don't _overexert_ myself. So you see, you don't have to worry too much about any hidden injuries. I have a hard enough time getting her to quit fussing over me. She's gone to get some groceries—left me a note—but you can be sure when she gets back I'll have no peace for the rest of the day. "

Bruce looked very satisfied at hearing the news. "Good. Then I can put all my efforts into interrogation."

Clark looked like he wasn't certain how seriously to take him. "Just don't overdo it."

Bruce grinned menacingly. "Oh believe me, Clark, there's no such thing as overdoing it when it comes to these…gentlemen."

**

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**To be continued…**

**You don't have to be around me long before you realize I live for reviews. –bg- I'd really like to know what Batman fans think of this. So please, drop me a review if you have the time—I'd appreciate it so much. :) **


	4. Part 4

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, alerts have been down—and still appear to be—but I think you deserve an update after all this time (and I hope people find it, regardless of the lack of alerts). What terrific reviewers this fandom has! -bg- Thank you. **

**Lotsa Batman in this one… Hopefully, this will show more clearly how I differentiate between Bruce (** **Clarks**** friend), and Batman (Superman's scary-and-extremely-protective friend -g-). **

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****Part 4**

"Is this far enough, Clark?"

Clark nodded. "Yes, this is good. I can't feel Kryptonite anywhere nearby."

Martha pulled off the road onto the shoulder and put the car in park. "How are you feeling?" she asked, turning in her seat to face him.

Clark was learning. He didn't say he'd been fine to begin with, nor that the entire trip was unnecessary. "I'm feeling a lot better. It's good to be away from the city." That _was_ the truth.

Smiling in satisfaction, Martha sat back in her seat. "We can stay here as long as you need. Take a nap if you want. That's the point of this little trip—to give you a break."

"Thanks. I did fall asleep for a while this afternoon, though, so I'm not that tired." Silence lapsed for a while, and then Clark commented, "Bruce Wayne was here this morning. He's staying in Metropolis for a while."

"Really? What is he doing here?" Martha asked, her face a cautious mask.

Clark knew his mother didn't approve much of Bruce, not when she only knew him like everyone else, by the unfortunate façade he showed to the world, as a generally irresponsible and immature playboy. But Clark could also see the way Martha tried to guard her opinion of Bruce from showing, since she knew that—for some odd reason—he thought of the billionaire industrialist as friend. It might have been more humorous to Clark, were it not so painful to watch Bruce's name and character being held under such disrepute. Sometimes he wondered why Bruce couldn't have tried to come up with a pseudo-persona that was just a little less of an extreme from who he really was. Clark Kent might be overlooked, but he wasn't usually looked down upon in that way. He wished his mother could have seen a glimpse of the "real" Bruce Wayne.

In response to Martha's question, though, he said hesitantly, "Bruce is here about the Kryptonite, actually."

"_Really_?" Martha's frown deepened.

"Yeah, he came to help." Clark considered his words. Given her opinion of Bruce Wayne, Martha had always been concerned when she found out that Bruce knew Clark's double-identity. Clark had told her that, because he liked to keep as few secrets from her as possible. But he wouldn't tell her Bruce was Batman, thus making her a possible target for anyone with a grudge against either Superman _or_ Batman. Not that he thought anyone would likely find out her connection to either of them, but… What she didn't know couldn't hurt her, at least he hoped not. Finally, he said, "He's going to do all he can. You know Bruce, he has plenty of strings he can pull…"

Martha looked dubious. "What kind of connections would he have that could help? Criminal ones?"

"Oh—no. Not criminal. He didn't give me details, but I'm sure he'll be able to do something."

"Clark, sometimes I think you put too much stock in him. It worries me that he knows who you are. What if he decided to sell you out? Superman's identity must be worth a great deal, and that man's got a mind for money."

Clark shook his head firmly. "Mom, he's not like that that. He's a good friend, really. Bruce is…"

Martha raised an eyebrow, but was tactful enough not to say what she thought he was.

Clark sighed. "He's not what you think he is. He's a good friend, and I'd trust him with my life."

"Seems to me you already are."

"Yes, I know I am. But please trust _me_ on this, even if you don't understand, or trust, him. He wouldn't betray my secret."

She reached over to pat his arm. "If you say he's trustworthy, of course I believe you." There was perplexity on her face despite her words. "I really don't see what you see in that boy, though. He's so…"

"I know, mom. That's what he looks like, on the surface. But he's a good man, really."

Martha gave his arm another pat and offered him an if-you-say-so smile. "Why don't you rest now, a little. I'll start driving back before it gets too dark."

Clark sighed inwardly, wishing he could just tell her the truth about Bruce, but knew he'd have to be satisfied with her taking his word on the subject for now. At least, in the days to come, he had reason to believe she'd be looking favorably on Batman's latest quest.

------------------

The alleyway below was dark and shadowy as he moved from the top of one roof to the next, simply leaping where the houses were closest together, and partially gliding over the longer gaps. It was a part of town with minimal lighting, the apartments crammed next to each other claustrophobically close. The lack of illumination didn't matter; Batman knew where he was headed.

Thinking through his plans for the evening, he couldn't help but consider what a lasting impression the bat-mobile would have made on the gang he intended to confront. Unfortunately, traveling via "tank" wasn't the best way to go if you were trying to go about things surreptitiously. Even for Bruce Wayne, his preferred mode of travel might have been cause for a few dropped jaws.

So, he'd just have to think of another way to impress the fear of God, and the more immediately-pending fear of Batman, into his soon-to-be acquaintances. For some criminals, as he knew from experience, a couple of free-falls off a roof—perfectly secured by his grapple line, of course—could be enough to convince them that talking was in their best interests. He could just go in, figurative guns blazing, and trample a few of them into the pavement, until the rest of them got the idea. But he'd promised Clark he'd play nice in his city, and he planned to. He "played nice" in his own city. He wasn't an executioner, and he didn't enjoy hurting or killing people, however corrupt. But Gotham needed a firm hand, and he was used to making sure justice was met in a slightly more direct, and, when necessary, more brutal way.

He'd just have to use a large dose of theatricality. Bruce smiled, moving forward more quickly as his thoughts progressed. He didn't enjoy killing, much less torturing, though little did the criminals he questioned know that. However, there was something more than a little gratifying about seeing the look of terror on the face of a man who deserved death, knew he deserved death—and thought Batman would be willing to give it to him. Painfully.

Batman had developed several possible stratagems by the time he spotted his target. The gang he sought was just ahead in the alley, laughing loudly, elbowing each other, and completely oblivious to the dark presence lurking above them. It wasn't a large or ostentatious league of criminals by any means, but he had to start gleaning information somewhere. One step at a time.

Spreading his "wings", he glided down the narrow street, swooping down hawk-like into the center of the activity below. He landed on his feet, prepared to attack. The men around him, however, were only prepared to stumble back in surprise and sudden terror. The Dark Knight was supposed to rove the streets of _Gotham_; the Boy Scout belonged to the criminals of Metropolis. They'd just been laughing at their luck: to finally be in possession of tools that could rid them of the superhero that was always frustrating their attempts. And now _this_. You didn't need to look twice at the menacing face, mostly hidden by a black mask, to see Batman wasn't quite the guileless, open-faced superhero they were used to.

What was worse, for reasons unknown to any of them, Batman was _angry_.

Bruce surveyed the motley assortment of cowering men. But there was one spineless man, with a just a bit more spine than the rest. The flash of a revolver preceded the retort of a shot, quickly followed by yet another hasty shot, and two bullets ricocheted off his armor.

Now _this_ was amusing. It appeared they intended to test for themselves all the rumors they'd heard about Batman. A smile of the non-comforting variety crossing his face, and Bruce cocked his slightly to one side to get a better view of the weapon's owner, who was half-hidden behind one of his fellow gang-members.

He heard movement behind him, but showed no sign that he had at first. Then, unexpectedly, he turned around, grabbing his would-be attacker by the arm. The man tried to twist away, his glare caught between terror and defiance, but Batman wasn't about to let him go. Not when he caught sight of the green object the man had tried to stab him with.

Bruce had been angry before, but that had been a general, necessary kind of anger. The kind of driving emotion that could enable him carry through with hours dealing with undesirable company, such as the present. Now, though—now he felt the notch go a step beyond that kind of semi-passive anger. Several notches, in fact. An unintentional growl, not unlike that of a large cat, escaped him as he continued to grip the Kryptonite-wielding arm of the man in front of him.

In his most menacing tones, Batman ground out, "Sorry. Not going to work on me." _And I intend to see that you don't get a chance to use it Superman, either._

The shard of Kryptonite was dropped, and the man struggled, but quickly found out he was no match for Batman, and nearly had his arm twisted out of its socket in the process. It was also easy to see that Batman wasn't twisting quite as hard has he could have. There was barely-restrained strength unspent, coiled in every taught muscle. Giving up, the man stumbled back as much as Batman's continued hold on him allowed.

"I'm here on behalf of a friend: Superman. You have heard of him, I assume." Batman released the man with a shove, permitting him to melt back into his circle of comrades. His rage mounted even more when he noticed more than one of the men possessed Kryptonite weapons, and held them now like they were life-preservers. He addressed the group at large in a deep but resonant voice: "Who's next?" he challenged, almost hoping someone would take him up, and conveying as much in his tone There was an almost audible collective gulp, and not one volunteer. "Very well then. I want every piece of Kryptonite on the ground." They hesitated. "_Now_," he barked furiously. Weapons clattered obediently to the pavement. He glanced down with a grimace at the multitude of green objects, and then turned in circle, slowly, leisurely meeting every eye—or at least those that would momentarily meet his. "Considering your little arsenal, here, I take it you do know Superman," he commented sarcastically. "And I think you might have heard of me, too. Only good things, I hope." He wasn't expecting laughter. And he didn't get any. At any rate, it was apparent they had heard _something_ of him… To his advantage, it seemed superstition and fact might be intermingled where it concerned his reputation in Metropolis. After all, if reports were _true_, he could summon bats at will, fly, and vanish into thin air.

"What do you want with us?"

Batman turned to the speaker, whose knees were shaking nearly as badly as his voice. This was going to be easier than he'd anticipated. He was going to have to have a word with Clark, the man was way too easygoing on the criminals of Metropolis. They were push-overs. Nonetheless, it remained to be seen just how easily these men would capitulate. But, seeing how he was feeling very much in the mood to do more than just threaten, he had no problem looking or sounding mean—"mean" as in quite-willing-to-tear-you-limb-from-limb _mean_. "I want answers."

"Answers to what?"

"Answers about Kryptonite." Batman approached the unfortunate spokesman, towering a satisfactory half-foot or so above him. "Who's the main supplier," he nodded toward the weapon-strewn ground. "of all this?"

"That depends on what you mean by…supplier…"

"_Who _supplies the Kryptonite?"

"W-we got our supply from someone further down, we didn't actually—"

Batman grabbed the front of the man's shirt. "_Who is responsible_?"

"I-I don't know his name. No one does, he—"

So this was going to take a little effort. Batman pulled the man upward by the front of his shirt until only his toes touched the ground. "Tell me now." It took very little effort to sound convincingly like he was at the end of his rope.

"He calls himself—" the man started in a squeaky voice, pausing to gulp in more air, "—'Merlin."

Batman gradually released the man, his thoughts already moving on, thinking ahead to the next step. "Merlin, eh? Who does this guy think he is…? More importantly, who is he really?"

------------------

From now on, she was going to be calm. Lois had made a resolution. Superhero or no, Superman tended to be a little absent-minded when it came to things like letting people know he was alive. But that was fine. Well, no, it _wasn't_. Actually, it was frustrating, anxiety-inducing, and downright infuriating. But, being the level-headed woman she was, she'd take it in stride and be rational.

Being rational, she purposed to think things through _rationally_. For instance, in this case, she had to admit that Superman wasn't being inconsiderate, unconsciously or otherwise. A couple days' lapse between "check-ins" wasn't unreasonably long. Perry wasn't even done glowing and gloating over the last interview, and was quite happy to wait for the next one, especially since it was as good as guaranteed already.

Thinking back to the latest rant she'd made at him—one of a long list of outbursts—she realized she really couldn't blame Superman if, one of these days, he decided to get a different media contact. Maybe a Vulcan or something. Someone who wouldn't yell at him every time he didn't write home. She snorted in self-disgust. Wouldn't _that_ make Perry happy?

Lois leaned against the stone parapet that surrounded the top of the Daily Planet building, and looked down at her hands. She frowned when she realized there was a cigarette between two of her fingers. How did that get there? _Do some deducting, Sherlock. Note how they're _your_ fingers, holding one of _your_ cigarettes… _Something about thinking, or more often _worrying_, about Superman seemed to drive her to smoke. Ironic, since every time he caught her in the act, he patiently reminded her how detrimental it could be to her health. Well, too bad for her health tonight. It would just have to suffer. She could only show _so_ much rationality in one evening.

She almost choked on a lung-full of smoke, when she heard the familiar sound of a cape rustling behind her. Polite, non-emotional smile in place, Lois turned. And a tall man, shrouded in a large black cape, stepped from the shadows. Lois knew the Bat-man when she saw him, but her first startled thought was: vampire. The cigarette between her fingers dropped to the ground from suddenly inexplicably nerveless fingers.

"Don't stop on my account," Batman said, sounding amused.

"I-I…wasn't."

"Really, go ahead if you want. I know Superman has a crusade going against tobacco. But me? Smoke doesn't bother me."

Lois began to collect herself. Although the vampire parallel seemed as sound as ever, it wasn't like she didn't know Batman, or that he stood for justice like any other crime-fighting superhero. She simply hadn't been expecting him.

Batman seemed to read her expression. He bowed his head gallantly. "I didn't mean to startle you, just there. I know that whole, stepping-out-of-the-shadows thing can have an alarming effect. Sorry."

Lois gave a weak smile in acceptance of the apology. "That's fine. I'm just used to a superhero who's a little more…easily seen."

"Speaking of our colorful mutual-acquaintance… He's why I'm here."

"You have news?" she asked, hope and worry colliding.

"Several kinds of news, actually. Both of the good variety."

_Thank God. _"He's alright?" He inclined his head, and she pressed him for more, "And the other news?"

"I have information for you to pass on to the police, about the person responsible for Metropolis' Kryptonite problem."

That was something she hadn't even bothered hoping for yet. "You know who's doing this?"

"Not yet. I plan on finding out in the near future. For now, I know the alias he's using. He goes by 'Merlin', and is apparently quite good at distributing without letting his customers know anything else besides that about him."

Lois took a notepad from her purse and hastily scribbled down the information. "Sounds like he knows what he's doing." On second thought, she also added, "It sounds like _you_ know what you're doing. How did you get this information…or do I want to know?"

"Don't worry, Miss Lane. The Boy Scout already gave me a good lecture about torture, and told me all about its being frowned upon in Metropolis. I'm playing by the rules. I just know how to impress the right people."

Lois viewed his studiously grave face with a suppressed smile of her own. She liked the way he was talking more and more. Superman would have someone out there twisting arms in his behalf, whether he wanted it or not. Out of curiosity, she inquired, "He—Superman, that is—he actually agreed to this?"

"A little force was necessary, but he knows better than to tell me no."

"How long can you stay?"

"I plan on staying as long as I have to in order to get to the bottom of this. Being the stubborn idiot he is, I know he's probably already as good as stated suicidal intentions of staying here, despite all this."

"Now I _know_ you're a friend of his," Lois commented wryly.

"Yeah…Good friends." Batman sighed. "Which is why I'm going to keep a close eye on him until this is over."

"Until this is over"—that had a promising ring to it. "Thank you."

"No need." Batman bowed his head briefly.

"I'll inform the police of all this."

"And I'll be back with more, very soon."

------------------

Clark heard Bruce's familiar step as his friend climbed the stairs to his apartment. Leisurely, Clark moved to the door, placing his hand on the doorknob, and pulling it open just as Bruce paused outside.

Hand just raised to knock, Bruce jerked back slightly at the unexpectedly swift greeting. "Do you _have_ to do that?"

"What?"

Bruce rolled his eyes and stepped inside. "Never mind."

"You look terrible," Clark commented casually, scanning his friend's slightly haggard appearance.

"As I keep reminding Alfred: bats are nocturnal." Bruce ran a hand through his hair and yawned. "I plan on getting some sleep, but I wanted to see how you were doing first, and fill you in on what I've been up to."

"Let's start out with what you've been up to," Clark said, turning away from him.

"Hey, I'll have you know I've already updated Miss Lane on this very subject—so she could pass it on to the police—and _she_ was in complete approval…" Bruce argued.

"'Mad Dog Lane' ring any bells?"

"So you don't trust _her_, either?"

"Oh, no, I trust both of you. Completely. But, I've also seen both of you get over-enthusiastic on more than one occasion."

"Well enthusiasm's an important thing to have in my profession."

"Would you just tell me what you did last night?" Clark asked, feigning irritation, but obviously more amused than irked. He glanced down at the sports-coat and shirt hanging over the back of the chair in front of him, and began unbuttoning the rumpled shirt he was currently wearing. He listened to Bruce's account of the previous night, smiling during different parts of the tale, and questioning more closely during others. He'd slipped off his shirt, and was in the process of putting on the freshly-laundered one, when some muttered exclamations from Bruce had him turning sharply around to face his friend. "What?"

Bruce was staring at him, a dark, foreboding frown on his face. "God but I'd like to give them a taste of their own medicine…"

"Who?"

"Those idiots who beat you up, that's _who_."

Clark glanced down at the markedly fading, but still visible, traces of bruising scattered across his chest. "I didn't really get _beaten_ up, I…"

"—Don't say it, don't say it... Let me guess, you got all those bruises walking into a door?" Sighing long-sufferingly, Bruce cut Clark off when he opened his mouth to protest. "Never mind. There's no use starting that argument all over. But I'm telling you, if I can get in contact with that old lady and find out the identities of those hoodlums, I will not be responsible for my actions."

Clark finished slipping on the clean shirt. "Whatever you say. Have anything else to say before you go off and find a cave?" He paused when a thought struck him. "Do you have a place to stay? Because you know you can stay here if you don't, I'm just heading to work."

"Nah, thanks, but I've already reserved a hotel room." Bruce smirked. "Besides, you dressing out here in the living room does nothing to reaffirm your claims of having a bedroom at all…"

Clark chuckled. "I _do_ have one. My mom's just sleeping in there right now."

"All the better reason for someone of my…questionable repute not to hang around and make things awkward." Bruce smiled his brazen I-could-care-less smile.

Clark knew better than to believe that particular smile, but it was true that Martha Kent and Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't go well together in such small space.

Bruce, watching his friend's troubled expression clapped him on the shoulder dismissively. "I chose my mask a long time ago. I doubt you enjoy playing the geek much more than I enjoy being thought of as blot on my father's good name."

"Actually, Bruce, being a geek isn't that bad."

Bruce gave him a concerned look. "If you say so. Well…I'm off to my 'cave'. Batman's getting cranky—trust me, you don't want to see that—and apparently Bruce Wayne was also pretty busy last night. I don't think too many questions will be raised if I choose to sleep until noon… Or later."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

Clark expression displayed his distaste and bemusement. "It must be exhausting. How do you keep up with Batman _and_ Bruce? Why couldn't you just be an eccentric and reclusive millionaire?"

Bruce's smile was somewhere in-between being patronizing and devious. "Now where would be the fun in _that_?"

"And here I thought the eccentricity was an act." Clark just shook his head and slipped on his sports coat.

Smile widening roguishly, Bruce slung an arm around his shoulder and steered him towards the door. "Come on, you hopeless introvert, time for Clark Kent to go to work."

**

* * *

**

**To be continued… **

**So, you learn just tiny bit about Teh Villain in this chapter, and there'll be a deeper look into his motivations in the next chapter. ;) And after that…I think we can get back to the angst. -eg- **


	5. Part 5

**A/N: Man, I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to update! I don't normally go this long in-between posting chapters. However, I've also never posted an incomplete story before, so I've been a little nerve-wracked trying to sort things out, and write the rest. –bites nails- At any rate, I plowed on through writer's block, did the best I could with the villain (yup, you get a glimpse inside his mind), and decided to post this chapter despite hesitancies. **

**Anyways, here's the chapter. (In case you're wondering: yes, Lois' state here at the beginning IS a reflection of how I've been feeling lately. LOL.)**

* * *

**Part 5**

Lois stared in determination at her blinking curser.

Ten minutes later, her determination was faltering, her gaze considerably less indomitable. Finally, she looked down at the keyboard and let her shoulders slump a little. Fighting the infamous Writer's Block—the bane of every writer—was something she didn't face too often. Working for a newspaper, you didn't often have the luxury of waiting for inspiration to come.

It wasn't even like she was facing some insurmountable task, or a particularly daunting piece of work. Perry had told her to take break, assigning her to monotonously routine articles. She knew Perry wanted her focused, taking a couple of deep breaths while waiting for her next Superman Interview—the real headline-makers. The kind of stuff she was working on now… Well, that was the kind of stuff Lois Lane could write up in ten minutes without even thinking about it. Supposedly.

Then why this sudden inability to put more then three words together on a page? Correction: she had put a couple of words together, several paragraphs in fact. Of course she realized a moment later that she was rambling completely off subject, making something complicated and long-winded out of a simple assignment. Reading it back to herself, she just sighed at her inability to focus, and held down the delete key.

Which brought her back to staring at a blank page.

She was tempted to blame her distraction on the constant swirl of noises around her, the irritating everyday cacophony of the Daily Planet. She could blame her odd lack of ability to produce on that, or the clutter around her, or a great deal of other things, including the general chaos of the world at the moment. There was only one problem with blaming her current predicament on any of those things, and that was that the Lois Lane she knew _thrived_ on chaos.

She didn't _like_ chaos, or _want_ catastrophic things to happen, but something about disaster brought out every ounce of the skill and determination inside of her that had earned her the title Mad Dog Lane. She was a reporter, and these were the surroundings native to her Muse. It was almost frightening to think her skills as a journalist might be becoming picky about where and when they would choose to make an appearance.

Breathing deeply in an attempt not to start hyperventilating at thought, Lois shoved such irrationality to the side. She bit her lip, she massaged her neck, she straightened one of the pictures on her desk. Shaking her head at her own pathetic attempts at distraction, she decided to do something at least semi-useful while she was busy scaring herself and procrastinating.

Clicking down the page she'd been "working on", Lois shrugged off her difficulties as writer's block just catching up with her—how many times had her co-workers told her it was inevitable? Glancing around the office, she spotted her quarry and rose, striding briskly over to Clark.

Clark was working at his own computer, but when she approached he turned with a smile, automatically beginning to rise from his chair in greeting.

The slightly formal, and completely and ingenuously pleased, manner in which Clark rose to greet her, had Lois motioning for him that it was unnecessary. She stopped, the words of polite protest still on her tongue, and just smiled back. Clark lived by his own rules of conduct, however out-dated they might be. Far be it from her to stop him—and quite frankly it was kind of nice to feel like your presence wasn't an intrusion.

"Hi Clark. You're looking better today." Lois was glad to be able to say it in all honesty. Clark looked like a different man—gone was the pale complexion and haggard look, so out of place in the same context as him, considering Clark's normally indomitable state of health.

"You're looking good yourself, Lois."

Lois gave a small snort, feeling a little too bad—in a rotten, horrible, this day-can-only-get-worse kind of way—to define herself as doing _good_, but said, not completely dismissively, "Well, maybe." She disregarded her own admittedly morose mood with a shake of her head. "I was just talking this morning with Perry, about…everything." "Everything" being an all-encompassing word for the tragedy via Kryptonite, mixed with one stubborn superhero, just waiting to happen. But she didn't bother reiterating what had already been thought and half-said too many times. "He wanted you and me to work together on this one."

"Really?" There was that pleased, I'll-do-my-best-to-please look again.

Lois nodded her head with a smile. "Yeah. There are, of course, other reporters covering all this. You know how Perry wants anything relating to Superman covered from every angle possible. But he wants you and me working on details; specifically, who's responsible for all this Kryptonite."

Although Clark still looked pleased at the idea, a hesitancy she couldn't quite understand entered his eyes. "The police…"

"Come on, Clark," she interrupted with a laugh, "since when does the Planetleave all the fun to the police?"

"I just thought…"

Lois interrupted him again. "Good grief, Clark, we're not going to be doing anything illegal. As a matter of fact, I think the police are going to be very interested in having us help out on this one."

Clark frowned. "Why?"

"Batman's in town doing a little investigating of his own—and he's apparently chosen _me_ as his contact." Lois couldn't resist a smug smile at his surprised expression.

"Batman? He's…_here_, in Metropolis?" Clark stammered. "And, you talked to him?"

"That's right. He paid me a visit last evening."

"Gee, Lois…" Clark shook his head in amazement. "Wasn't that a bit…frightening? He seems a little intimidating, even if he is on the right side."

"I have to admit, there's definitely something a little…menacing about him. But I guess I'm not exactly used to the dark and brooding type superheroes. But anyone who's willing to help solve this Kryptonite problem has to be on the 'right side.' And he had some useful information for me to pass on to the police." She recounted the news for him.

"So now," Clark mused as she finished, "all we have to do is find out who this 'Merlin' is—"

"—and wring his neck. Right."

"I think we should leave that part to the police." There was a spark of that peculiar sense of humor all Clark's own.

"I don't know…Batman wasn't looking too happy himself. He might have already called first dibs on this 'Merlin.' I'll take that, though, as long as _someone_ does it. If he wants to make him suffer a bit first, who am I to argue…"

Clark ducked his head, the slight smirk on his face threatening to turn into a full-blown smile.

"What?" Lois asked, with mock indignation. "I'll admit, I'm feeling a little blood-thirsty. You want to make something of it?"

"No, of course not. I just never thought of you as the…torturing type."

"Yeah, well, extreme circumstances and all that... This guy's not going to get away with this with life in prison if I have anything to say about it, and I think I could find a few other people who'd agree."

"I'm sure Superman appreciates it."

Lois rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. "Appreciate it? He probably hasn't even noticed that we're all crazy with worry for him yet."

Lost in thought for a moment, she didn't hear Clark's muttered, "You might be surprised..."

An opening line for the current article she had been working on abruptly popped into her head, energizing Lois like a jolt of adrenaline. "Wow, I just got an idea..." She jerked her thumb in the general direction of her desk. "I better go get this down before I lose my train of thought. I'll keep you updated, though."

"Okay, Lois. I'll talk to you later." With a slightly less nerd-like wave than usual, Clark sank back down into his chair and returned to typing.

Lois' fingers touched the keyboard, and out came pouring words at their usual spelling-annihilating rate. In a satisfactorily small amount of time, she was perusing the finished article with relief. So, it had been just a small bout of writer's block after all. Amazing how re-inspiring conversations with a dweeb like Clark could be sometimes.

-----------------------------

Dr. Tristan Davien wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. Was that so much to ask? Apparently so. Ever since "the boy scout" had come back to town, respectable criminals had paid the price.

Respectable.

That was what he considered himself. He wasn't some poverty-stricken low-life who scrounged because he had no choice. No. Dr. Davien had brains, and he didn't waste a single grey cell on trivial crime. To him, criminality was an art. A challenge. And a challenge it was to get away with anything while Superman haunted him like a nightmare, ruining the best-laid plans. Superman couldn't stop all wrongs from happening in Metropolis, but Tristan knew that a man with plans as brilliant as they were big, such as his were, could never hope to pass the superhero's notice.

And what did that leave him with? Either he got rid of his plans, or he had to first rid himself of Superman. He had, of course, chosen the latter, and Kryptonite had been his only logical recourse. The only problem was, he knew nothing of the mineral, nor was there a large quantity to be had. More had to be made, somehow. It was as simple, and complex, as that.

A large amount was necessary, he'd come to that conclusion early on. A large amount was necessary because confusion was necessary. When all was said and done, and Superman was dead, the directly responsible party could not—would not—be him.

And there was more. Not only did he intend to get away without implication, but he intended to get away with something extra as well. Namely: the gratitude of fellow criminals everywhere. Whether they were of the intelligent variety or not, anyone and everyone breaking the law knew owning a piece of Kryptonite might very well be their salvation. Tristan had introduced that salvation in bulk, and all but gave it away.

But it wasn't easy. For one thing, he didn't know the first thing about synthesizing crystals—his degree was in psychology. He'd begun to research the process, but it was too long and arduous, and he could not be wrong. If he studied long enough, he could omit the smallest chance of that being the outcome, but that might take a bit more time than he was willing to sacrifice.

That being the unfortunate case, he'd opted to hire an expert in the field, to look over his shoulder, as it were. The only problem with that was that it meant someone else had to know the intimate details of his plans, something he didn't relish. The scientist would have to go as soon as possible.

That was how he operated: efficiently, covertly, maintaining his identity at all costs. When the first part of his operation was complete, there would be no one, and nothing, to point an incriminating finger toward him. The law would never find him out—and there would _be_ no Superman.

Dr. Devain considered himself an expert of the human psyche, but he'd found much to perplex him when it came to the inhabitants of this city. They were obsessed, some more than others, but all to a certain degree, with the welfare of this…alien. True, he had protected them, saved lives, but still… this was ridiculous. Even those he hadn't personally done anything to help were oddly focused on helping _him. _The inexplicably loyal citizens of Metropolis, and the dogged protectiveness with which they guarded "their" superhero, was pathetic, but, so far, proving maddeningly effective. He'd expected success by now, and the delay chaffed, Superman's survival grating more and more every day he lived on. He had so many plans formulating, brewing, ageing to perfection. Once Superman was gone, he'd be in a position to call in the numerous debts owed him, and begin to truly implement his brain.

-----------------------------

"Bruce, I've already had this conversation. Several times, in fact."

"I'm sure you have."

"No offence—I am extremely grateful for your help these last few days—but this is my—"

"_Aht_," Bruce interrupted. "Let's not get all possessive and territorial, here." They were in Clark's apartment once more, and Martha was in the other room, so he lowered his voice. "Let's sort this out like the mature superheroes we are."

"I wasn't going to say 'my city'; I was going to say my _responsibility_," Clark corrected irritably. "My problem."

"Even on an average day that's not exactly true."

"Yes. It is."

"Clark."

"Bruce."

Bruce sighed at the unusually argumentative streak that seemed to have possessed his friend. "Clark, I know about as much as anyone what it means to feel responsible for the welfare of an entire city. It's easy to feel guilty when something you could have prevented goes wrong, but you simply can't expect yourself to save _everyone_."

Clark gave him an "oh really?" look.

"Really," Bruce confirmed decisively. "You can't expect that of yourself. You, of all 'superheroes', just might be able to nearly accomplish it, but even you can't be there for everyone."

Clark snorted softly. "I gave up on that a long time ago."

It was Bruce's turn to turn the "oh really?" look on his friend.

"Yes, _really_, I did. I know that's not a practical mind-set to have—if I was still thinking like that, I'd be stark raving mad by now." Clark's look dared Bruce to make a wise-crack on the state of his mental health. "However, none of this relates to the original topic of this conversation…"

"Yes it does. It all comes down to you trying to take on the world at the worst possible time—"

"Not the world, just a small part of it. Believe me, I've seen the world, and Metropolis _is_ only a small part of it."

Bruce's face reflected how close he was coming to being at a dead-end as far plausible points of argument went. Then, his eyes lit up, as an idea hit him. "All right, all that aside… Look, you can't go on saving the world if you're dead. It all comes down to that."

"That's true," Clark conceded—without sounding defeated in the least. He kept his voice confidently low. "But, might I point out that you risk as much every time you become Batman?"

"Might I point out that _I _don't have bullet-proof skin, and thus can't _help_ that fact?"

"There, you've gone and made my point for me," Clark said smugly.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You never have been invulnerable, but you continue to risk your life. I've had an unusual advantage all along. Now that that advantage is taken away, and I do have a vulnerability, suddenly everyone's telling me it's insane for me to continue."

"It's not the same, and you know it. I may not have 'super-powers', but I've had just every super-gadget money can buy. I may not be invulnerable, but like I said, that can't be helped." Bruce grinned with exaggerated swagger. "I'm not, technically, a superhero at all; just an extra super-guy with lots of cool toys."

"Funny, Bruce." Clark smiled despite himself.

Bruce said more seriously, "I do what I can, given my human limitations."

"And I just want to do what I can, given these new limitations."

"You mean you want to test your luck against insurmountable odds. Even cats only have nine lives. How many do Kryptonians have? You have to be getting close to the end of your supply by now. What was it this last time? Saving Metropolis once again, but nearly dying of Kryptonite over-load, not to mention that nifty Kryptonite dagger Lex used on you before having his thugs beat the—"

"Yeah, that would have been the last one," Clark interrupted, unsuccessfully hiding a wince at the memories.

Noting the wince, Bruce halted his rampage, with a slightly shame-faced, "Sorry." But he still intended to get his point across—or get verbally killed in the process. "The point is, as a human, I can't help but be vulnerable in certain aspects. You can."

Clark shook his head. "Not anymore. The odds have just been evened, and I'm ready to move on. Maybe this is just the way things are going to have to be from now on. Maybe the Kryptonite's here to stay."

"I won't accept that, and neither will the people of this city. Don't be so quick to discount all of us. We want to see this stopped."

"And I'm not saying I don't. Obviously that's not what I want. But I have to consider it a possibility, that this _can't_ be stopped. It could spread all over the world, and if I'm going to stay, I'm going to need to learn how to cope. I won't hide away forever."

"How about just for a little while?" Bruce's voice took on a pleading quality.

"How about we compromise?"

"What kind of a compromise?"

"I'll only go if it's necessary."

Bruce guffawed. "_How _necessary?"

"Very necessary. Only in dire circumstances."

Bruce considered. "This is as a good a deal as I'm going to get, isn't it?"

Clark smiled.

Bruce sighed heavily. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't be wise, even for Batman, to stand in Superman's way once he's set his stubborn mind to do something. So, yeah…it's a deal. Don't make me regret this by getting yourself killed. Oh, and one more thing…"

"What?"

"You get to tell Mad Dog Lane about this one."

"I thought you just said didn't want me putting myself in danger," Clark muttered in mock-protestation.

"I don't want it _that_ badly."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**I know Bruce is acting quite light-hearted again, here. Again, I humbly admit that my grasp on the characters is but that of an amateur fan. This is my first try, and this is how I see him possibly being around Clark, if the two of them got be good friends. The Dark Knight side of him **_**will**_** be making more appearances, however. ;)**

**The feedback I've been getting is much loved! Thanks heaps everyone. :) –crawls off to continue battle with The Block- **


	6. Part 6

**A/N: Man, I am _so_ sorry for taking this long to update! Things still aren't quite the way I originally envisioned them, but I think I've been fiddling around with this part long enough. –heavy sigh- "Merlin" is just…he's being mean to me. –smacks him- Thus, his extremely un-cooperative attitude has made my preference for writing the heroes of this little tale even stronger. I simply **_**don't like **_**my villain! Go figure. **

**Anyway, here is the next chapter with a sharp turn (which involves angst, as promised), and lots of introspection for Lois. ;) There's also just a jot of medical-ise (a language I have yet to learn, despite my dad's profession as a physician) and some physics-type stuff (which I consulted my brother on, so mistakes are all his fault :P).**

**Thank you, people, for the wonderful reviews! They've really kept me going.**

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**Part 6**

Things weren't anywhere near normal, nor did they even begin to approach what Lois would have considered settled down to a level of comfort. One thing was for sure: things were far from uneventful with Batman in town.

Although the denizens of Metropolis were accustomed to viewing "their" superhero with general warmth and patriotic fervor, not everyone was sure what to make of the Dark Knight. He might be here to help, but there was most definitely something sinister about this dark-shrouded champion of Gotham. Lois was careful and deliberate, however, to give him a good reputation in all her reports, and state clearly his reasons for being there. Her approval went far in calming general views of the menacing new-comer, and prospective help. Now that it was becoming apparent that he really was here to assist, tentative trust seemed to be established. The pseudonym "Merlin" was little enough to go on, but if Batman could discover that so soon after his arrival, surely he could get to the bottom of this in no time.

Lois sat in her chair at her desk—for the moment, not even making a pretence of working. Perry had told her she should get some rest. Even though the suggestion had been disguised as a barked order, Lois knew it had been given out of genuine concern. Funny how everyone nowadays took one look at her and told her she should get some rest. There might be some truth in the idea. She'd glanced in the mirror this morning and had to agree: Lois Lane had seen better days. Her groggy brain concurred.

However, sleep was elusive. It wasn't just the tumult of worries and anxiety-produced images playing out in her mind that kept her awake; it was also all the turmoil of endless possible plans forming in her head, only to collapse under closer scrutiny. The very fact that these brilliant ideas had been born in the middle of the night—when she was supposed to be sleeping—was probably the reason they didn't hold up when viewed under the light of day. But over-thinking had always been her personal bane. Over-thinking usually led to rash urges to do something, sticking her nose where it usually had no business being. Lots of people seemed to think that she did things without thinking, when, in fact, the opposite was usually true. Recklessness was just her thoughts spilling over into actions.

One thing that held her back from actually carrying through with any of her crazy ideas was the knowledge that Batman was out there, helping in ways far more practical than anything an irate reporter could hope to accomplish. She'd spoken to him twice now, and although he'd had nothing further to reveal to her about their unknown assailant's identity at their second meeting, she'd still left encouraged. The vengeful, steely determination she'd felt emanating from him would have been terrifying, had it all not so obviously been aimed at their common enemy. _Superman's_ enemy. It was a mutual wrath, that was for sure, and in an odd way it made her feel a certain kindred-spiritedness with Batman—a rather bizarre discovery to contemplate to be sure.

Batman had also assured her that he would continue to do everything in his power to ensure that Superman looked after himself. It was wryly hinted at that, should "the boy scout" fail to do so, desperate measures would be taken on his part. He left what possible connotations "desperate measures" might have up to her imagination. The fond tone of voice he'd used all the while he was talking about Superman did more to assure her than anything, though. Superman had an ally in her; Superman had a _scary_ ally in Batman.

Things were looking up, at least, with Batman out there, and the police cracking down on anyone caught with so much as a sliver of Kryptonite in their possession. Allowing that thought to bring her a semblance of comfort, Lois took a mental step back from her worrying, and her gaze turned to the TV, as was its wont to do with an increasing frequency these days.

What she heard next came like a physical blow to the stomach.

A male news reporter was reporting live, his words rushed, and his face dark with foreboding. "…serious news about Superman…" Lois just about shouted at the woman behind her to shut-up, as she lost the second part of the sentence due to her chattering. But most of the buzz in the room quieted as someone turned up the volume, and the reporter's next words came out loud enough for everyone to hear: "…to tell you that Superman has been shot. We don't have the details yet on exactly how this transpired, but the ambulance arrived a few minutes ago, and police are questioning witnesses…"

Lois didn't wait for the rest. Perry had already told her to leave once today, and she was going to take his advice. But she wouldn't be heading home, and she had a feeling sleeplessness would be her companion for a while longer.

------------------

The hospital: a dreaded destination, because it filled Lois with such apprehension, and yet a welcome one because it might to put an _end_ to the apprehension. One way or the other. Just like last time, Superman's life hung in the balance. He'd survived last time—_flown_ away from the situation, in fact—but did that make it more likely to be the outcome of this situation, or less likely? Her thoughts were fuzzy, tired, numb.

Walking down those corridors felt like revisiting a nightmare, the memories of her last visit still painfully near the surface. Everything was so eerily similar. The crowd outside wasn't quite so large or frenzied, since the police had been insistent in pleading with the supportive citizens not to come. Their presence could make any further attempts on Superman's life all the easier, their chaotic ranks the perfect hiding place for anyone carrying kryptonite. Most had listened, and it was easier for Lois to slip in this time. She did notice as she entered, however, that despite the lack of a crowd, the emotion was as intense as before.

Once inside, things began to feel even more familiar. Lois could have sworn she recognized one or two of the sympathetic faces she passed, as she was guided down the hallways. That wasn't right. She didn't want to be getting any more familiar with the people who worked here—no offense to them personally, but rather the setting. _I'm betting they're hoping just as badly as I am that you don't ever see the inside of this hospital again. I bet they were hoping that the _last_ time you were here. You just don't listen, do you? How often can _Superman _wind up in the hospital, anyways? _

She was so lost in rehearsing her admonishments she hardly realized where she'd been lead, until someone was pressing her gently into a seat. Dazed, she looked up into the kind face of nurse, and had to focus quickly or miss what the woman was trying to impart to her.

"…they're with him now. I'll let you know when you can see him, but I think—"

Apparently she'd already missed a great a deal. Lois pulled herself together. "Wait, how is he? Where was he shot?"

The nurse gave a soft and long-suffering sigh. She'd obviously already been over this before, but the kindness hadn't left her face, and she reiterated patiently, "Right now he's been stabilized and he's in surgery. I can't tell you much more than that right now, but you'll be informed in full as soon as possible, Ms. Lane."

Lois nodded slowly, the words finally penetrating her consciousness. "I see…thank you."

"Are you alright?"

"No." She didn't even try to make her smile look anything more than feeble. "But hopefully I will be soon."

Any time spent in a waiting room felt like ages, but her wait, she knew, was relatively short. When it came to Superman, most medical procedures were experimental—and "experimenting" was something they wanted to avoid, especially when his life was at stake. According to the doctor who'd come to give her a report, he was stable, and the bullet had been removed. The wound had been to his right shoulder. No, she couldn't see him yet. He was being brought to ICU, where she'd be able to visit him for short periods of time. She asked for details, and got a convoluted string of words, peppered with medical terms she didn't have the energy to ask for a definition of. At least, they seemed convoluted at the time, but she was careful to store them away in her mind for later reference.

The second part of the doctor's explanation wasn't much easier to understand, but she listened up, since she knew she might not get a second chance any time soon to hear it. The doctor had first hastened to say that it was all speculation and theory on his part. Kryptonite itself wasn't exactly a mineral that lent itself to projectile weaponry, so they could only assume the entire bullet hadn't been Kryptonite, although _part_ of it obviously had been. They could only presume, if there had been Kryptonite inside the bullet, close to the tip, at impact with Superman the rest of the bullet would have been flattened, peeling back, but the weight and the momentum of the material behind it would allow the Kryptonite to pierce the skin. The Kryptonite they'd found inside the wound had shattered into several pieces, but they'd taken extreme caution to get it all out during the surgery.

Lois sat back again after that, waiting for the nurse to come and bring her to the room Superman had been moved into.

She rarely cried. She rarely let any deeply personal emotion show, at least not publicly. Sometimes she knew she probably came across as a little...driven, and even hard. Sometimes she felt as if she was too single-mindedly focused on her work to have _time_ to wallow around contemplating how different things made her _feel_. Feeling wasn't going to get her anywhere; it was the doing that accomplished things in her world.

It wasn't that she was in denial that those emotions existed. She was a woman, and as passionate as any, possibly more so than average on more than one topic. But she was also a reporter who had to know when and where to let herself go, and when and where not to. Right now, the situation definitely seemed to call for some "letting go". At the moment, however, she still felt too numb to even know exactly how she should be reacting. What was she feeling? Anger, though definitely there, seemed muted by her current helplessness. Indecision she certainly wasn't experiencing—this was where she needed to be right now. Fear seemed to be what she was mostly left with. It hammered undeniably at her, making her heart beat at a slightly elevated rate in a shallow, painful rhythm.

When the nurse finally came, she rose and followed automatically, in much the same hazy mindset as when she'd first entered the hospital. She didn't even look at the bed when she initially entered the room, just allowed the nurse to continue guiding her toward a chair. Lois sat down, still looking at the floor, her lap, her hands, and anything else to distract her attention from the real reason she was here. She sensed the nurse's eyes lingering on her with concern for an extra beat, before she left the room, with a soft, "I'll be back in ten minutes, Ms. Lane."

Lois tried to rouse herself, as the words reminded her of her time limit. If she didn't take advantage of this brief chance, she'd be regretting it later when she emerged from this fog. Her gaze drifted from the floor, to the railing of the bed, to his arm lying atop the covers, and finally to his face. Looking at him, she felt some of the grogginess of her mind stripped away. The next second she wanted the grogginess back in place, shielding her at least partially from all the raw feelings being released as she became more focused on reality.

And what an oxymoron reality seemed right now. Superman. Shot. Hospital. The words simply didn't _belong_ together. Which didn't explain why she'd heard all three of them in conjunction several times over in such a short space of time. Someone needed to explain it to the world at large: Superman didn't belong in a hospital bed, fighting for his life. He belonged _out there_, fighting to save _other_ people's lives.

Even though her gaze would have dropped back to contemplating her feet, she refused to be so spineless. The nurse would be back soon, and she didn't want to waste a second. But he was so…still. So weak-looking, and defenseless. Such an alien sight. _Alien_… She mused over the word with a soft smile. He might technically be an alien, but she'd never thought of him as one. He cared for earth as if its inhabitants were his own people, particularly focusing on Metropolis, as if somehow, consciously or unconsciously, he'd adopted the entire city into his protection. _And we're returning the favor so spectacularly, too, _Lois thought bitterly.

She'd been so angry when he'd disappeared for five years without saying goodbye. Now she was beginning to wish he'd never come back. For his own good. It seemed like every villain in Metropolis had had time in his absence to stock up on ideas and ways to eliminate the superhero. _Just survive. Again. Maybe they're running out of ideas by now. _Lois snorted softly at her own optimism. While Superman lived, Kryptonite existed, and men with evil minds continued to be born, the latter would always be seeking to bring the other two together, with the intent of killing the first.

So, she was officially stuck in a pessimistic frame of mind. How could she help but be at a time like this?

She had a few minutes left, and, exhausted and beyond anxious, she finally let her shoulders slump, leaning her elbows on her knees, and bowing her head forward let it be supported by her hands. Her fingers didn't entirely obscure the view of the bed, and she found she still couldn't look away. To be in this waiting and wondering position _again_… She'd hated it enough last time. Through that time, she'd been forced to admit to herself again that, despite the clinging vestiges of her anger, she did care what happened to him. Deeply. If possible, it hurt even worse coming into this situation, already openly acknowledging the fact.

Lifting her head from its resting place against the palms of her hands, she finally became aware of the presence of the nurse hovering in the doorway.

"It's time to go now, Ms. Lane."

Lois rose, pausing next to the bed. She thought of the kiss she'd so hesitantly and secretly bestowed on him last time. At the time, fear and hope had crowded out her normal practicality, leaving her romantic and spontaneous—as her supposed reversed Sleeping Beauty act had so obviously showed. That was pretty much how she felt now, only without so many self-imposed inhibitions. Not that she was going to give in to romantic spontaneity there and then, in front of the nurse, or try rousing him to consciousness with a kiss. But she didn't repress her emotions, or try to keep them from showing on her face. Reaching out, she let her fingers linger briefly on his forearm, and scanned his pale face, before turning to follow the nurse.

------------------

In the wake of Lois' departure things returned to a serene, if somewhat eerie, silence. Only the faint and muted sounds from beyond the door, and the steady beep of the heart-monitor, keeping track of his pulse-rate. The nurses continued their rounds, but, as had been the case last time, there wasn't much to do but wait and see if Superman's "powers" of accelerated healing would be enough to save his life.

For hours, nothing disturbed the scene. Then, an hour or so before dawn, a noise could be heard outside the window. The soft sounds grew louder, closer, and then, quietly, the window cracked open. A dark figure entered the room.

"You are playing nice in my city, aren't you?"

The voice from the bed was weak, hardly discernable, but the dark-clad figure started. Quickly recovering, the newcomer strode forward with a whisper of, "God, you're awake?"

Drowsy eyes only opened a crack, Superman raised both eyebrows.

"You've got to stop doing things like this…"

"You didn't answer my question."

Not responding immediately, Batman scowled, surveying his friend with an expression that somehow managed to become even darker than his usual look of doom and foreboding. The glare that spelt death ala Dark Knight was not a pleasant to behold—and that was precisely what Batman was contemplating committing as he took in the sight of his considerably injured friend.

Although Superman was easily recognizable as himself, and didn't quite fit the half-dead—or fully dead—images of Bruce's nightmares, he looked bad enough. For someone reportedly "invulnerable", he certainly _looked_ vulnerable at the moment. Perhaps it was the ashen hue of his skin, or the fact that he was in a hospital bed and looked like he belonged there, or the fact that he still looked terrifyingly close to belonging in a grave instead. No doubt it was a combination of a little of all three.

Blue eyes that held a reassuring amount of vitality scrutinized him, even while Batman reciprocated. Finally, Batman shook his head—but couldn't stop scowling just yet—and replied, "Play nice. You still want me to place _nice_? Nice as in by-the-rules nice? Because, if you ask me, I think a few citizens in this city of yours need to learn an all-important lesson: they mess with Superman, and their last visitor is going to be dark and scary. And just a little angry."

Superman regarded him through half-closed eyes. "Maybe you should put that on a billboard or two."

"That is an idea. I'll sign it 'Your Worst Nightmare'."

"Seriously, though, you haven't…done anything?"

"Anything I'd _regret_? That kind of 'anything'? Because, you know I wouldn't regret—"

Superman interrupted with a groan. "I'm not exactly in the mood for playing word-games with you right now."

Under the mask, Batman's expression softened considerably, and so did his tone. "Just trust me then."

"You know I do." A short lapse, then, "Did you really just come in through the window?"

"No, I didn't '_just'_ come in through the window. Those nurses bolted it pretty good—I think they're trying to keep you here this time."

"Exactly what would you have done if you'd been caught coming in through the window?"

"Well, that's how _you_ check _out_ of these places. Besides, how else would you have expected me to get in here?"

"You could have just…I don't know—asked?" Superman pointed out in exasperation.

"You honestly think they would have let me in, just like that?"

"Good point. I'm pretty sure you're against any respectable hospital's protocol."

"Thanks. I do strive to maintain my reputation."

"You should get out of here before the window-bolting nurse comes on her rounds."

"If you're that anxious to get rid of me after I went through all the effort to get here…"

"I just don't want to see you get hurt. She's one of those tough ones. I don't think they need the police they have stationed out in the hallway." Despite his smirk, Superman's voice continued to grow more tired-sounding, and his eyelids were drooping further.

"You're going to be alright?"

"If they have anything to say about it, I will be," Superman said, indicating the door, and general staff of the hospital, as "they".

"They'd better."

"If you're done threatening the general populace, you could go tell my mom I'm fine."

"I'd do a lot of things for you, but lying to your mother is not one of them."

Superman all but rolled his eyes at his friend.

"What? She doesn't like me."

"Tell her I'll _be_ fine, then. Soon."

"And how would Bruce Wayne have come by this information so quickly?"

Superman's mouth lifted in a subtle smile. "He has his ways."

Batman's expression became decidedly ominous. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

**To be continued…**

**Feedback is appreciated. Very, very appreciated. :)**


	7. Part 7

**A/N: It has been so shamefully long since I updated, an apology really doesn't cover it…But I am really, really sorry I've left all you wonderful people who've been so encouraging to me chapter-less. :-( I shall now attempt to make amends. The story is finished! Just editing left. I've been out of town a ton lately, and during my writing time I've been struggling with a few plot obstacles, and plowing through a bit of action (the bane of my existence), but now I'm almost ready to give you the rest after this chappy. Hope the wait was worth it! (And thank you, Trekkie6, for the PM—it kinda got me up 'n going again. ;-)**

* * *

**Part 7**

Lois turned from pacing from one end of the hospital room to the other, and was half way back across when she realized the occupant of the bed was no longer sleeping. Blue eyes pierced her with a focused gaze, and she started in surprise. She rushed to his side, only to hover uncertainly, unsure what to say.

"Hey," she said at last. "How are you doing?"

"Good."

The response struck her as rather ludicrous and simplistic, considering his surroundings, but he did look better. Of course, nearly anything was better when contrasted with how he'd looked during her first ten-minute visit. Still, the longer he was here the better she'd feel, as it meant that much longer for him to recover—and that much longer he'd be kept from chasing more criminals.

"Yes, well…" she began, suspiciously. "Don't even think about flying out of here any time soon. The last time you were in here, I came here to see you, and the went home to worry myself sick, only to find out in the middle of the night that you'd checked yourself out."

"Thank you."

That effectively stopped her rant—which had really only been idle words filling the, otherwise awkward, silence to begin with. "What?"

"Thank you, for…coming to see me, then, and now."

"Of course. Where else would I have been?" A sudden, incredibly embarrassing thought struck her. "The last time, when I visited, when I…"

Now she wished she'd just left the question untouched. She felt her face flood with a self-conscious heat as she remembered she'd done a little more than talk to him; the hesitant kiss wasn't meant to be seen by anyone. It had been a spur-of-the moment, impulsive act, born in desperate times. And he'd been unconscious. Supposedly. That was the question that lingered in the back of her mind. As she glanced at Superman now, there was the barest hint of humor in his eyes. It unnerved her enough to produce a slight stammer. She hated it when she stammered.

"That is I…um…n-never mind."

He was gracious enough to switch the topic. "I have a feeling you might be receiving more information soon."

"You mean from Batman? How do you know that?"

He nodded. "I spoke with him a little while ago, and—"

"—He came _here_?"

He nodded again, in a matter-of-fact way. "Made use of the window."

Lois' head automatically jerked towards the window, and then back again. "The window? You two both need to learn what doors are for."

"Windows are more convenient—faster."

"Whatever you say," Lois conceded dubiously. "Did he give you any information?"

"No… He was mostly just here to glare at me, and threaten harm to various people."

"So Batman's not too happy, and neither am I—we may actually get something done here." She had that dangerous Mad-Dog-Lane-on-a-scent look, the kind she wore when she smelled a good story. This was that look, and a bit more.

Superman looked slightly uneasy. "Just let him do what he does best."

"You just let me do what _I_ do best." She sighed half-heartedly and looked out the window. "I do have a feeling, though, that Batman might get to have most of the fun on this one."

------------------

Bruce hadn't felt this nervous in… Well, he hadn't felt this nervous since he couldn't _remember_ when. It wasn't the terrified I'm-going-to-die kind of nervousness. He'd always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie, and life-or-death situations were commonplace enough occurrences in the life of Batman. This was more the I'm-going-to-puke-or-flee—or both—kind of nervousness. _Puke? That's a bit of an exaggeration… _a voice in his head derided him. Alright, alright, so he wasn't going to throw up, or run away. But he was feeling embarrassingly apprehensive about this. And, like an idiot, he'd all but promised to go through with it—and what kind of excuse could he come up with, really?

The cause of the Dark Knight's edginess? One, rather small, old woman, by the name of Martha Kent.

_Good God, when did I become socially awkward? I think you're rubbing off on me, Clark. _Maybe he was being a wimp, but Clark's mother did not like him—it was a fact. And she could be a stern, protective kind of woman when she wanted to, and usually was when it came to things concerning her son. Sometimes he felt ridiculously as if, in Martha Kent's eyes, he was viewed as some older, street-savvy _kid_, having a bad influence on her impressionable boy. No way was _that_, in any shape or form, true. Well, if he did have an influence on Clark, it wasn't like it was a bad one…necessarily.

The worst of it was, if she decided to take at him with a broom, he couldn't exactly fight back against his friend's mom—even if he did make a habit of fighting elderly women, which was hardly the case. _A broom, is it? Quit exaggerating things way out of proportion and get some guts, _Batman

So he did. He knocked on the door to Clark's apartment, cleared his throat—and was extremely grateful he had good news to deliver. _Just remember, Mrs. Kent, you're not supposed to kill the messenger…_

Martha's hopeful expression fell at the sight of him, but she was nothing if not gracious, even to those she disapproved of. "Do come in."

Trying to look as little like the scoundrel Bruce-Wayne-of-the-tabloids as he could, Bruce entered with a humble, "Thanks." He sat down when she offered him a seat, but declined anything to drink.

Martha sat down opposite him in the small space that passed for a living room. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?" She was polite, but it was obvious his millionaire status, coupled as it was with his reputation for indolence—among other things—was only a minus in her opinion of him.

"I've been to see Clark."

The simple sentence transcended any hostility. "How is he?"

"He wanted me to make sure to tell you he'd be 'fine'."

Martha's hands were busy twisting anxiously in her lap. "And what do you think, Mr. Wayne?"

"It's Bruce—please, call me Bruce," he insisted gently.

Worry was overriding her normal hesitancies in regard to him. She nodded absently. "Then what do you think, Bruce. _Is_ he going to be fine?"

"I think… He's doing alright, at least as alright as can be expected. Yeah, he'll be fine."

"How did he look?"

"Honestly? Not too good. But you can't expect him to be looking great after all he's been put through lately. He looked a little worse for wear, but…nothing Superman can't handle." He smiled encouragingly.

She smiled back tentatively. After a few minutes of digesting it all, she glanced up at him, looking for once more curious than disapproving. This meek, quiet young man, frank but gentle, could not be the Bruce Wayne whose character was so disreputable. Everything she'd heard about him had indicated that he didn't even care about his reputation. "I appreciate your honesty with me—I appreciate you coming to me at all. It's so hard, not being able to see him, only gleaning what I can from the news… They never have the details I need to hear."

"I can't imagine how hard it must be."

"I wasn't even able to hear the entire story of how this happened in the first place…do you have any more information of the actual events?" She frowned. "He was…shot?" It filled her with eager hope to finally have a possible source of reliable knowledge, a go-between of sorts, doing what she'd never been able to do.

Bruce nodded. "With a Kryptonite-filled bullet, apparently. Or something like that. It seems he found jewelry-store robber who carries the new and improved anti-Superman bullets. At least I hope he's the only one."

"But a jewelry store robbery… Surely the police could have handled it? Even if the thief got away… is a bit of jewelry worth risking his life over?"

"Probably had something to do with the fact that there were a couple of young kids in the store at the time, and it was looking like the possibility of violence or a hostage situation was escalating. You know Superman can't just walk past a situation like that."

Martha sighed heavily. "Of course not. He would not be who he is if he was capable of doing that." She regarded with growing interest. As a friend of Clark's, she'd seen him several times, and spoken to him on a few of those occasions. He'd never sounded so earnest about anything. All her previous encounters had led her to believe that he viewed life as one big game—and she especially disliked the cynicism he'd been so fond of using almost constantly. She didn't like the world-weariness she'd sensed in him.

"Who are you, Bruce?" she asked after a minute, partially teasing, partially serious. "Surely you're not the young man the papers are always talking about."

"Evil twin brothers can be such a pain."

She laughed.

"It's nothing to laugh at," he said, with mock seriousness, and a decidedly teasing glint in his eyes. "The guy hogs all the money, and leaves me with a bad reputation. I keep telling people he's the one with the wild life, who keeps pulling all these stupid stunts, but do people believe me? No way. I'm seriously considering plastic surgery."

"_I_ almost believe you," she replied, still chuckling lightly.

"Well, believe me on this, Mrs. Kent. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure your son doesn't get hurt again."

She looked into his suddenly sober brown eyes, unexpectedly soulful in their intensity, and felt, inexplicably, as if she could trust him.

------------------

Batman thrummed with impatience. That man had better have been telling the truth. He'd certainly scared the man enough. He'd scared a number of men—probably mentally _scarred_ a couple—and had received answers in record time. On one man in particular, one of the first he'd questioned after his visit to the hospital. He'd come on a little too strong, perhaps. But it wasn't like he was without excuse, the man _had_ run from him, and, upon capture, donned a preliminary show of defiance. How was he to know that a raised voice and subtle threat of violence would turn the man into a quaking mess? For a minute he'd thought the guy was going to have a heart-attack.

He was several victims down the line now, and finally getting close. Very close. His next quarry was a scientist whom, if his last "source" had been truthful, was about as close as he was going to get—until he found "Merlin" himself. Supposedly, one "Dr. Robert Siffler" was the head honcho's right-hand man. The fact that he was a scientist was giving Batman a whole new set of premonitions to think about as he stood there, waiting in the alley outside the good doctor's humble abode.

Now that he'd had several hours to vent his anger on various criminal parties, Batman found his wait much more pleasant, and the dark storm-cloud of anger in his chest was settling to a nearly manageable level. A good thing, that, since he couldn't go strangling Dr. Siffler—at least not before he found out who Merlin was. Once he found Merlin, on the other hand...what he would do to _him_ once he located him—that was another story.

He kept himself quite occupied with thoughts—fantasies, really—about possible ways to "take care" of this Merlin fellow. So many endless possibilities. _He told you to play nice, just keep that in mind… _How could he forget? Of course he'd play nice. He had been playing nice. But the rules just couldn't apply when it came to this man, whoever he was. Before he got to anything fatal, however, he would need to extract everything there was to know about the Kryptonite situation. Batman had a few ideas of his own, now, but he would need those ideas confirmed. Merlin had to be an intelligent man to be orchestrating all this. He probably wasn't a coward. A pity, for him, because Batman intended to get every piece of information he needed. This was going to end today.

Siffler's door opened, and the man himself, as described by Batman's last fount of information, stepped out. Hunched slightly, rubbing a hand absently through short salt-and-pepper hair, Siffler strode down the pavement towards his car.

"Hey Doc."

Apparently, Siffler was a jumpy man, either by nature, or by nature of the work he was involved in. Shoulders tense, he whipped his head around towards the alley. "Who's there?"

"Introductions in good time."

Siffler's eyes focused on the alley, squinting. He looked slightly curious, but more than slightly ready to bolt.

"Just take my word for it, I'm someone you want to talk to."

Batman wasn't known for his charm at convincing people to voluntarily "talk", and his tone of voice obviously wasn't doing the trick with Siffler either. Keys jingled, and the scientist shifted his stance minutely.

"I wouldn't try it if I were you. Which I'm very glad I'm _not_, I might add."

"What do you want?" Instead of the stuttering, nervous type, it seemed Siffler was one of the tight-voiced, tight-lipped nervous type. His entire body seemed to be in a state of complete hyper-tension.

"Come over here, and we'll talk about it."

"W-why?"

Maybe the man did have a stammer—or maybe he was just at his extra-scary best. He was doing _good_. "Wouldn't want the neighbors speculating as to why you're standing there talking to yourself, now, would we?"

Siffler's lips formed an even tighter line, and his darting eyes hardened with a mixture of apprehension and faltering decisiveness. He moved towards the alley, edging along uncertainly until he reached the alleyway. His gaze darted around, as if they didn't want to settle on anything—least of all the form in front of him, a shade deeper than the other shadows.

"You're…the…uh…the…"

"Yes?"

"…Batman."

"Got it in one." The man looked like he was going to fold easily, so there was no reason to be overly menacing—but why not? He made a habit of not wasting opportunities such as the present: the chance to freak out a coward who deserved _more_ than to be freaked-out. He had to play nice with this one, but that didn't mean his prey had to be aware of the fact.

"What do you want?" Siffler reiterated.

"I think you know."

Siffler's mouth opened, but Batman cut him off.

"Save it, Siffler," Batman growled, leaning forward from his casual stance of a second ago, reclining against the wall. "I happen to be friends with Superman. Right now, Superman is in the hospital, thanks to a _mysterious_ influx of Kryptonite. I'm beginning to get a picture of how that mysterious influx is happening, and I think that picture includes you."

Siffler was backed up against the opposite wall, gulping.

Batman loomed closer, towering over the comparatively short man. "And how do you think Superman's condition is making me feel?" He asked the question, and let the silence fall uncomfortably. He loved asking obvious questions and letting the other guy squirm.

"Angry?" Siffler offered timidly.

Batman's lips curved in a smile that looked more like a snarl. "And you know what I do when I get angry?"

The word "dismember" was on the tip of the scientist's mouth, if his bulging eyes were any indication. "Look, I—"

"—No, _you_ listen to _me_. I'm going to ask you a question, and I don't want to ask it twice. Understand?" Batman kept his arms rigidly at his sides, fingers curled into fists. "_Do you_ _understand_?"

Sweat trailed down Siffler's temple. "Y-yes." If he wasn't the stammering type before, he was now. Maybe permanently so.

"Who hired you?"

"He…I…"

"Give me his name."

When Batman started to sound calm, it was time to panic. Siffler was learning quickly. "Dr. T-tristan Davien."

Batman stared at him, dark eyes unrelenting. He kept staring. "If you're feeding me lies…"

"Dr. Tristan Davien." Siffler's voice was clipped, wavering, defeated. "I swear it. That's his name."

"The Kryptonite?"

Siffler reached of to run his hand through his hair. "I-I…we…it's not actually Kryptonite, if your definition of Kryptonite is—"

"—Radio-active pieces of Krypton." Batman wasn't relenting a modicum in piercing the man with his wrathful glare. "You have five minutes to finish explaining."

"Well, essentially…I…that is, we…It's been attempted before, but this time…"

"Five minutes, Doc."

"This time…" Siffler cleared his throat, and lost some of the stammer by force of will. "This time, Dr. Davien thought we could figure it out—how to _really_ synthesize it. He—_we_—studied it for ages before we even began _trying_ to recreate it. Sodium, lithium, borosilicate—"

"Get to the point."

"The point is, we went a lot further than chipping off a piece, and recreating the obvious ingredients. W-we dug deeper…." Siffler frowned and shook his head, for the first time during the course of their "conversation" seeming to forget that Batman was looming over him like a panther eager to dig its claws into him. "I discovered something I'd never seen before—we think it was the key, to keep it from eventually loosing its potency. We had hoped—"

"—Enough," Batman ground out. "I think I get picture. You obviously succeeded."

"Maybe. We can't be sure its worked until it's been around for a great deal longer. Of course, Dr. Davien was content enough with the fact that it worked at all. He just wanted it around long enough to…" Siffler paled. "…never mind."

Batman clenched and unclenched his jaw several times before speaking again. "Why did you help him?" When Siffler only cringed away from, Batman felt loathing overwhelm him. This diminutive, sniveling, cowardly idiot had nearly killed his friend, and for _what_? Of its own accord—rational thought had nothing to do with it—Batman's hand reached out to grab the man by the front of the shirt. "_Why_?"

Siffler showed the first signs yet of actual defiance, but it was a breed of defiance born from despair. "It's not like he walked up to me and asked if I was willing to help him kill Superman! He didn't tell me anything specific, not up front. He just offered me a lot of money. He gave me half of what he promised right up front, _cash_. By the time I found out the intimate details…I was too far in to dig my way out. Way too deep." The man barked a low, bitter laugh. "And now, you might as well kill me yourself, and save him the trouble, and me the suspense."

Batman released him with a shove. "Oh, no, I'm not killing you. You're going to tell me where Dr. Devien is doing this little Kryptonite production of his, and then you're going there yourself. You're going to act like everything's normal—and I'm coming with back up."

------------------

Contrary to popular belief, Batman didn't actually _enjoy_ hanging out in dark, dimly-lit locations. Locations, such as the present dilapidated shipping yard, were just part of the job. Seedy people usually wound up by default in seedy places, creepy people hung out in creepy places, and so on and so forth. Since Batman was almost always seeking out such company, he ended up spending an annoyingly large portion of his time also hanging out in such places. At least he didn't have to deal with crowds or, heaven help him, _tourists_, or anything of that nature.

It was easy to blend in to his current local. Black was a wonderful color. Eerily deserted as the shipping yard appeared at this time of night, there were plenty of stacked crates and equipment to cover his progress, as he systematically inspected the warehouses.

"For some odd reason the man likes to work at night," was how Siffler had put it. Batman could have rolled his eyes at the man's apparently genuine naiveté. _Yeah, this guy, and just about every other criminal in the world. Being nocturnal must be a prerequisite for masterminds by now. _He chuckled inwardly, considering his own night-time activities, and his self-association with _bats_. Batman turns criminal? Nah, he was just adapting to yet another of the demands of the job. Somehow he couldn't picture himself doing a whole lot of premeditation of that kind. If he went criminal he'd probably be more of the crimes-of-passion type, not the aloof schemer unwilling to take part in the dirty work that he pictured Dr. Devien as being.

His impromptu criminal personality quiz came to an abrupt halt at thought of the doctor. He'd alerted the police to "Merlin's" location, according to Siffler, but if those police didn't get here fast he didn't know if he'd be able to stop himself from administering a little justice—Batman style. Interesting…this might turn out to be an equally balanced crime of premeditation _and_ passion.

Siffler had assured him that Tristan would be here tonight—and he had better have been telling the truth. Right now he didn't feel in the mood to cope with disappointment.

Siffler had also given him an interesting tidbit about Dr. Devien's profession. He wasn't a medical doctor, or a scientist, he was psychologist. Batman automatically grimaced. First Doctor Crane, now this guy… As of now, he was officially never having one of those guys messing around with _his_ mind. He pitied any poor soul who'd come to this psychologist looking for help.

A familiar car came into view, which he recognized as Siffler's, parked outside the building in front of him. There was another car—small, dark, and practical—parked next to it, which had to be Devien's.

He scanned the side of the tall building, and was rewarded at last with the sight of a faint light, high up and to his left. Either the glass of the window was tinted in some way, or the source of the light was small. He could make a guess as to what he'd find inside, but he had to make sure. The police would be here soon, but that didn't mean he had to wait around doing nothing.

Operating more on instinct, and, admittedly, not a little impatience, Batman opted for starting out with the direct approach to getting his answers. Finding the door could wait. He reached for his belt, judged the distance to the roof, and shot his grapple line, aiming to the right of the window. Hopefully, he wouldn't be heard. But, if he were to, quite accidentally, alert Dr. Devien to his presence…well, then, he couldn't be held responsible for what he did to the man. If it was done in self-defense, and as a last resort, who could blame him?

The metal hook clanked above him as it reached its intended target, and in response to his tug latched on to the ledge. Then he shot upward, silent and swift. He stopped just beside the window, leaning slightly to the left to get a view inside. It was exactly what he'd expected.

If the two inhabitant of the large room had looked up at that precise moment, they would have been faced with the nightmare-worthy sight of a masked figure observing them. Observing them with a glint in his eyes, and a menacing smile on his lips.

------------------

Tristan was annoyed. Actually, he was beyond annoyed. He was agitated _and_ annoyed. A dangerous combination in someone of his mental inclination. Although feeling annoyed in and of itself wasn't a pleasant experience, he had to admit, once he got in the mood it was actually a little fun, in a vindictive kind of way. It wasn't actually the mood so much as the way other people reacted to him being in the mood. People like Siffler were absolutely clueless when it came to dealing with rampaging psychopaths. Not that he was a psychopath—that was merely Siffler's perception of him.

Siffler was currently all but physically bowing and scraping to his every command, as he scurried around the small laboratory facility they had set up in the warehouse for the purpose of synthesizing the Kryptonite.

Siffler was smart that way. Well, technically, he was smart in other ways, considering he _did_ have a P.H.D. However, Siffler was stupid in just about every other way that counted. He had a very limited sense of personal greed, no domineering abilities, and no willingness to do whatever it took to get what he wanted, to take down anyone or anything that became a problem… The man was a born looser. And he was going to lose big time when he was done with his plans. Well, perhaps if he was feeling particularly magnanimous he'd let him live. But, if he did, he'd have to keep a close eye on him, and plenty of threats handy to keep him in line. However, he realized Siffler, for all his lack of backbone, was the kind of conscience-ridden idiot who'd give in to a momentary lapse of morality and decide to sacrifice himself for the greater good. Yes…it looked like he was going to have to get rid of him after all. Not that he'd been expecting to feel that magnanimous any time soon. Not with Superman still alive.

"Hurry up," Tristan snapped at the scientist, who was already currently rushing around at an incredible speed, looking ready to burst into flame from the friction. Tristan found that mental image rather amusing.

Ironic, that those would have been his last thoughts—right before Siffler tripped, crashing onto the table, breaking equipment and spilling and mixing chemicals in far-too-large quantities. The laboratory around them exploded.

------------------

Impatience has its merits. In Batman's case, on this occasion, impatience to scale back down the wall and find an entrance into the building had him out of way of the window. Just before the explosion shook the building. The glass above him shattered. He gripped the grapple line, as it swung precariously.

Perhaps the hook came loose, or a piece of flying shrapnel cut his line, perhaps the section of roof supporting his weight broke off. Whatever the cause, he found himself falling, without enough time to speculate on anything, before his head abruptly impacted with the ground.

* * *

**To be continued...**

**One more chapter and we'll be wrapping things up! I can't guarantee it, but I'm gonna try to give you it within the next week. It definitely won't be months, in any case. :-) **


	8. Part 8

**A/N: I know this isn't exactly the quick update I promised, but my editor got really bogged down with work and couldn't edit this for me until now. Thanks for sticking with me, folks. :-) And now, the final installment…**

* * *

**Part 8**

Batman regained consciousness to find his head buzzing. No…more like, ringing. When he finally came to the conclusion it was actually the sound of sirens he was hearing, he also quickly came to the conclusion that it wasn't in his head. Not all of it, at least.

He could have opened his eyes, and curiosity was encouraging. The pain in his head, however, was against it. So he stayed where he was, and listened to the sirens, heard them come closer, and finally cease. Then doors were opened, and voices surrounded him. Come to think of it, there'd already been voices, hovering somewhere nearby.

Finally, he did open his eyes. And nearly panicked when all he could see was blurry and black. Had he hit his head _that_ hard? Then, events began to fall into place in his disoriented mind, and realized he was looking up into the nighttime sky. It wasn't so dark, either. He followed the brighter flashing lights in his periphery, turning his head gradually to the side.

He took in the commotion surrounding police cars, and fire trucks—and the warehouse. He frowned, as he realized he was some ways off from the warehouse. Hadn't he fallen near it?

Before he could formulate an answer, a new object entered his field of vision. A face to be precise. It was a woman's face, and her expression was concerned—apparently for him, and seemingly just a little for herself.

"Are you alright…sir?"

Batman shifted gingerly, and frowned back up at her, with a grunt that was meant to be an answer in the affirmative, but came out sounding much more pained than he'd intended. He winced, and ground out a weak, "Fine."

The hovering face didn't look reassured. She looked at him, then glanced to the side.

He followed her gaze, tilting his head to the side ever so carefully. A gurney, and several pairs of uniform clad legs entered his sights. As the woman started saying something to her gurney-rolling companions, he found his voice, "_No_," he barked, trying not to moan at the spike of pain his own elevated tone sent stabbing through his aching head. "I'm not going…where ever you're thinking about taking me."

The woman's face became bemused. "You mean…the emergency room?"

"Yeah. There." He winced as he turned his head back to facing the sky. "By the way, why am I here?"

The concern on the paramedic's face took a nose-dive towards alarm. "You don't remember?" She looked ready to motion for the gurney, against Batman's will or no.

"No—hey, you're not getting me on that thing, so don't even think about it." His glare, though somewhat hampered by the fact that he was flat on his back and wincing at most movement, was still warning enough.

The growl and the glare worked. She spoke slowly, eyeing him anxiously, "You were close to the building when it exploded, and you must have been thrown back, hitting your head. When the police arrived, they dragged you away from the building…"

"Yeah. I remember most of that. Fast forward a bit." He clenched his teeth as he worked his way up into a partial sitting position. He squinted at the smoking warehouse building, and firetrucks, the firefighters still battling the remaining flames. "Did anyone escape?"

She shook her head. "Not that we know of. You're sure you're alright?"

Batman rose, careful not to show any signs of pain that might give the paramedic further cause to demand something ridiculous of him. None of them were getting anywhere near his mask, that was for sure. Already having come to the realization that head movement of any kind was not going to be a good idea in the near future, he gave a curt, "I'm fine." He could almost see Alfred raising his eyebrows at his rudeness, with a formal, _"Another fine display of your impeccable manners, Mr. Wayne." _He managed a half-polite, "Thanks." Then his attention was drawn back to the warehouse—and a certain friend he hoped was finally out of danger. "There's someone I've got to go see."

------------------

Lois was back to square one: musing over paper headlines, and trying to pin down her feelings on the subject they were all proclaiming. This time, at least, Superman was safe—she hoped.

She gazed out across the city from her traditional haunting spot, at the top of the Daily Planet building. Thank God she didn't have to look out and wonder anymore, how much Kryptonite was infecting Metropolis. It was still out there. However, it turned out "Merlin" hadn't been any more successful in his attempts to recreate Kryptonite than anyone before him. Well, perhaps he had been _slightly _more successful. The Kryptonite had been potent, and its life-span was long, but its effects, however, didn't last forever. Scientists confirmed the fact that this "Kryptonite" was, indeed, losing its original integrity.

She found herself grinning quite often now, simply with the sheer relief of it all. Although her previous fears had often been shoved to the background by her sub-conscious, she certainly wasn't trying to ignore the almost giddy happiness she felt now.

Of course, there was one thing that brought her joy down a notch. She did have a blood-thirsty streak, and this Dr. Devian—though she hadn't been able to formerly put that name to the nemeses—had brought out something particularly nasty in her. Alright, so maybe she hadn't really been expecting to be able to mete out justice on the doctor with her bare hands. But having him die in an explosion, before he was even brought to trial… That seemed a bit too merciful.

Never mind all that. She could have swallowed her thirst for vengeance, and forgotten the man who'd been premeditating Superman's death. Forgetting him would have been easier than dealing with the gnawing feeling she had in the pit of her stomach, as she tried to ignore the insidious voice of pessimistic fear that was whispering in her ear. What if Tristain Devian wasn't dead? The official report had yet to come in, on whether or not one of charred remains found in the warehouse was indeed Devian's. She felt morbidly prepared for, and expectant of, the worst-case scenario. But if he had escaped, what could be done? There'd be a price on his head, certainly. But Devian would know that, and, obviously intelligent as he was, he'd disappear. For a while, at least.

"Hello, Lois."

The greeting was quiet, almost diffident, as if he was trying not to intrude on her solitude, but it made Lois start in surprise all the same. She must have been truly lost in thought not to have either heard the rustle of his cape, or seen him out of the corner of her eyes as he approached. Now, as she turned, Superman's expression was as uncertain as his voice, giving her the impression he must have been standing there for a while. Since his recent return, there'd been an instinctive amount of decorum and formality between them. No doubt most of that formality had been caused by her initial reception of him. Or rather her rejection. At that moment, however, she could have kissed him. Instead, she settled for a ridiculously wide smile, that hopefully expressed at least a little of her happiness at seeing him alive and well.

Superman looked oddly unnerved upon receiving a full-watt, and apparently genuine, smile from her. His reaction made Lois laugh a little inwardly, and wince at the same time. He really didn't seem in the least certain of where he stood with her, or of how she might respond to him. She wasn't entirely certain herself, and had been even less so a couple of weeks ago. Now, although she wasn't certain, she knew enough. She knew the world would be a much worse place in his absence, and that she, personally, dreaded the thought of losing him. However he fit into her life, it was an important gap he filled.

"Hi," she replied, equally quiet. "You look a lot better." Thank God it was the truth.

"Thanks. I had a few people looking out for me."

She nodded in acknowledgment. When he said "thanks", he didn't just say it for the sake of etiquette, he said it because he meant it, and he said it _like_ he meant it. She could feel his gratitude, solemn and sincere. It warmed her, and at simultaneously made her self-conscious. "It's not like you haven't watched out for a few people yourself."

"It's not like those people _asked_ for it." He looked rather self-conscious himself, but now in more pleased manner, rather than with his former discomfort.

"Neither did you. We were all more than glad to have the opportunity to help." Realizing how the sentence might have been misconstrued, she amended quickly, "Not that we were glad there was _need_ for our help…"

"I know."

Why did even the shortest of his sentences convey so much more then many of her longest? Honestly, the man should try his hand at journalism. That thought came with a set of mental images she decided it would be best to sort through, and snicker over, later. Right now she couldn't afford to confuse him with any more impromptu outbursts of erratic female behavior. "It just good to see you. Alive. But you've got to stop visiting the hospital so often. They're going to start reserving you a room—maybe put a commemorative plaque above the bed."

"Bars on the windows?"

She looked at him quizzically. "How did you get out this time? You didn't just…fly off again, did you?"

"No, of course not."

She raised an eyebrow. The picture of Superman formally checking himself out of the hospital was almost as ludicrous as the picture of him having a desk job as a writer.

"I didn't. I waited until the nurse came, told her I was leaving, and then I flew off."

She laughed outright, shaking her head. It felt good to give in helplessly to smiling and laughing, after all the near-catastrophes they'd just narrowly escaped from.

He didn't laugh, but his smile was as genuine as hers.

Still shaking her head slightly, Lois said, with far more fondness than authority, "You've been doing that a lot lately, too—flying off without a word."

He sobered immediately, his speech pattern assumed a thoughtful, slightly stumbling cadence. "I know we talked about it before, but I just…I wanted to say again…I'm sorry for not saying anything before I—"

She held up a hand, halting him with the firm gesture. "No. I don't want you to apologize again. We did talk about it, and… I overacted." She met his eyes with an unwavering look. "That doesn't mean you should do it again. But I do understand better now, I think. I mean, I still think it was incredibly thoughtless of you just to…go, like that, without a word." He winced, and she felt herself soften. "But you did have every right _to_ go. You had every right to go, and see if there were any survivors. I'm just sorry you didn't find anyone."

He didn't try to keep from showing his sorrow. "I am too."

"But you know, you don't have to feel like… I mean, you're not _alone_."

A smile crept back into his eyes. "Someone said something very similar to me once before."

"Well, they were right."

"I know," he said again, voice full of solid assurance. "At first it was hard to accept, that I was the last. But I returned and…I didn't feel like I'd ever left. Earth _is_ my home now."

He gazed out at the city, managing to look simultaneously protective and almost fond. Lois' gaze instinctively followed his. Metropolis. This was her city. Her home. _Their_ home. Analyzing her feelings now, she could see fear had been the true cause of her anger. Fear that she'd been assuming something was real when it wasn't. When he'd left so unexpectedly, without a word, she'd expected him to come back. This was his city after all, wasn't it? She was… We'll, she'd meant _something_ to him, hadn't she? All those beliefs had been shaken. And now? Now she knew she'd been right all along.

Eventually, the morbid sound of sirens caught their attention. His look was one of uncertainty. Hers was one of assurance.

"What are you waiting for?"

He was gone with last smile of gratitude. As for her…she was content. Metropolis had its champion back, and she was his own personal media contact…and maybe just a little more to him, besides. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes, leaning into the wind that was whipping at her face. Yeah. There was definitely something a little bit…more between them. But therein were a multitude of inhibitions and uncertainties she was content to battle another day.

------------------

By the time Bruce made it up the stairs to Clark's apartment door, he wasn't _quite_ wishing he'd taken the woman up on the gurney offer, but he was wishing for more Tylenol. His head pounded angrily, and he could feel the beginnings of a rather large bump where he'd hit his head in the fall.

For once, he was actually grateful to have the door opened in his face, no knocking required. The rock 'n roll that had vibrated the hallway outside one of the previous apartment doors had been quite enough noise. He wasn't looking forward to listening to the sound of his own voice. Maybe he should have considered the option of the emergency room more seriously… Nah. He'd be fine.

"Bruce…" Clark had apparently been waiting for him. "Where were you?"

Clark's inquiry wasn't shouted, or even spoken loudly, but it seemed to slice through the throbbing mess that had temporarily become Bruce's brain. He probably shouldn't have come, concussed as he probably was. Too late to turn back now, though. "Well 'hi' to you too. Can I come _in_?"

Clark stepped aside, but continued to watch him with close scrutiny. Bruce was already preparing for the expected "Are you alright?", ready to refute it with the traditional "I'm fine", when Martha Kent entered the room.

"Mr. Wayne, you look simply awful!"

Bruce had a feeling "I'm fine" wasn't going to quite cut it for this new progression of events. Sounding more pained than he'd intended to, he grunted, "It's Bruce, remember?"

It was the wrong thing to say if he'd been looking to get her off his case. Her face softened a little, something he couldn't quite decipher stirring in her old eyes. "Yes, Bruce, and you're going to come sit down before you collapse."

Bruce didn't really see the point in arguing, so he sat where directed in the small living room, trying to avoid eye-contact with the still-watchful Clark, who sat down opposite him. Martha remained standing, a concerned frown on her face.

"Look, both of you, I appreciate the concern but really…I've just got a hangover." Now Martha was the one Bruce didn't want to make eye-contact with. He was surprised at himself for how much he really didn't want to see the disapproval he was certain was on her face now. He looked anyways, expecting her to leave the room. Then he and Clark could have their conversation, and he could go home and bury his head under a pillow until the throbbing went away.

Martha didn't leave, however. She remained their, arms crossed, shaking her head…smiling. "Despite the fact that Clark never gave me any opportunities to hone my skills, my mother's intuition for lies is as intact as ever. And you, Bruce Wayne, are a terrible liar."

Well that was a hard insult to stomach. A terrible liar? He smiled wryly. "Alright. You want the truth, then? I'll give you the whole story, I swear." He looked pointedly at her, eyebrows slightly raised. "But, I'll have you know, I was telling _part_ of the truth. You see I was at this party, lasted most of the night… Managed to restrain myself pretty good about the booze, but I was still a little worse for wear by the time I was leaving. As I was going out the revolving door, there was this guy behind me, and when I paused—hesitated for just minute—he kept right on going." He reached up to gingerly touch the back of his head with a theatrical wince. "Bashed me right in the head, the idiot…"

He had a completely unconvinced audience.

He sighed heavily. "Hey, it _hurt_."

Martha turned towards the kitchen with a simple, "I'll go get you an icepack for that."

Clark didn't pry further, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. Both of their gazes drifted momentarily towards the newspaper lying on the coffee table between them. Headlines declared cheerfully that Superman was safe again, the problem solved thanks to Batman, the police, and citizens of Metropolis. Clark gave a slight smile and nod of gratitude. Then Martha was back with the icepack, holding it out to Bruce, and then just as quickly pulling it back to move closer and apply it herself.

"Hold this here now."

Bruce accepted her ministrations long-sufferingly. "Thanks, Mrs. Kent."

"_Martha_." She stepped back and glanced sagely between the two of them. "Now you two talk about whatever you have to talk about, and I'll bring you some Tylenol before you leave." Before she turned to go, she met Bruce's gaze solidly—and he could have sworn he heard her whisper a heart-felt "thank you". He turned to Clark after she'd left. "Do you think she knows?"

"About your alter-ego? Who knows. All _I_ know is that it's never wise to underestimate her."

"I believe it." Bruce cleared his throat. "Now…"

"What?"

"There's one thing I've been meaning to talk to you about ever since this whole mess happened."

Clark looked at him in apprehensive bemusement. "Oh?"

Bruce's gaze roved around the room. "Your apartment."

"What about it?"

"If you're not going to move, then I think Wayne Industries is going to have to do some serious remodeling."

Clark stared. "You're not serious…"

"Oh I am."

"Bruce, the danger's over, I don't think—"

"—but I _do _think it might be very necessary. And how do you know the danger's over? Don't tell me, on top of everything else, you've developed the ability to foresee the future?"

Clark ignored the last statement. "But what do you mean by 'remodel'?"

"Well…" Bruce gave the room another assessing glance. "we'd have to buy the building first. This place is kind…seedy, though, don't you think?"

"It's fine, Bruce. I'm not actually here all that often, anyways."

"Ah, come on, if we're going to line the walls with lead we might as well do it on a little more up-scale kind of place. We could charge more for the apartments, making the renovations on the basis of protecting us 'normal' humans from the possible effects Kryptonite might have on us, should there be another outbreak… Besides, there'd be additional sound-dampening benefits, as well."

Clark tuned out of the conversation around the point where Bruce started talking about "solar-spectrum lights" and "lead-impregnated glass". He could try to collapse all Bruce's arguments later. After all, who would believe Clark Kent was making enough money to afford something like that? Right now, though, it was actually rather comforting to be sitting next to a friend who obviously cared so much about what happened to him. Bruce's litany continued. Clark smiled. He would never be alone.

**The End**

* * *

Thank you all so much for the tremendous feedback! I'm not sure if I'll be writing more Superman fics or not, but you've made writing in this fandom extremely attractive with all the encouraging reviews. I really appreciate it! I think I'll probably at least end up dabbling around with some one-shots sometime. ;-)

My gratitude goes once more to my dear sister _Imbecamiel_ for all her patient beta'ing, and I'd also like to acknowledge _JamesTKent_ for giving me the wholr idea for the apartment renovation, which I included in the end scene. :-)


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